These    are    the    good times.

I was greeted by Dory, a friendly lady with a warm smile that rather melted me. She would be with me all the way through recovery. She looked much like my grade school friend's mother: in a pencil-skirted tweed suit, trying to herd my demonseed friend to wed night St. Andrews.

Dory gave me a two bias-cut green plaid numbers. She told me to put the first one on with the opening in the back, and the second on as i would a bathrobe. The entire ensemble was unflattering, especially the sleeve length. The color would never be available at Farrow & Ball.

 Dory sensed I was uncomfortable so she put one on too so i wasn't the only jerk walking around like this. i felt no arousal.

They took me into into the operating room on a stretcher. I think it impressed Dory that when they flurry around me attatching leads, IV ports, administering injections, i already know to hold up my middle finger for the blood oxygen clip to be attached. as they wheeled me in , aleady beeping, they had shoo away some 6 yo kid bleeding some guy to death. they quickly cleaned it up and spanked his behind. i helped.

afterwards, Dory comforted my confused surgeon. had he left a pair of scissors inside?

I put it in the biohazard bin. for so, so many reasons.