Morphine is Good

I wrote a brilliant, witty, inspiring post. And Blogger ate it fucking up in one great big gulp. Asshole. So now you all are stuck with the crap I write when I'm irritable and tired. Here is the Reader's Digest version of my weekend:

1. Friday 1700 PST begin drive from San Diego, Ca to Draper, Ut


2. Arrive in Draper at 0630 am local time-that's right, I drove all night long due to fucking traffic/accident/stupid drivers
   


3. My driving companion (AKA W1) and I took a nap


4. I fed my father two orders of french fries and a chocolate shake from McDonalds for lunch, as per his request


5. I bought my father a large bottle of white wine, also at his request


6. I coveted my father's supply of morphin like a crack whore but resisted- what? I've never had morphine and it sounded sooo yummy
   


7. My father and I got semi-trashed and I told Chicken stories


8. We took many naps


9. I am waiting for the hospice care nurses to call Adult Protective Services on me for doing several of the items above.

My dad's favorite Chicken story involves my removing Satan Spawn's bedroom door. Chicken had been abusing said door with much slamming and internal cursing at me. When the door came down, he huffed, he puffed and he exclaimed "YOU HAVE RUINED MY WHOLE ENTIRE LIFE". I almost fell onto the ground laughing. After that when he went to slam his missing bedroom door he would pause, get pissed off again that his door was gone, and stomp into his room. I retold this story to W1 at my dad's urging and I thought he was going to piss his pants he was laughing so hard.

At one point, my dad was napping and W1 found a website that deals with horoscopes and numerology. When my dad woke up he saw the site and entered his birthday in the numerology section. It turns out that he is an "11" which is a master of vibrations. Of course I began to call him the "Master Vibrator" until my tummy hurt from laughing.

On Saturday morning the shower nurse/aide person arrived to give my dad his shower. After she was gone I asked my dad how it went. His comment: "On a scale of one to ten she was a half". He cracks my ass up.

I learned that hospice care = as many drugs as necessary to be as comfortable as possible. That's my kind of care. Oh, and other things like cleaning and bathing and nursing but I'm all about the drugs.

I had a great time with my dad and wish I could drive up there every weekend. W1 commented that she sees where I get my personality/sense of humor from after spending the weekend with my dad. I should get her to do a guest post on my blog about her trauma/experience.

Note: For clarification purposes only, my friend "W1" is not really W1. I inspire much teasing from friends and family about varied topics and my friendship with a dyke gives them much fuel for laughter and jokes. Oh, and I use the word "dyke" only because she prefers it over lesbian.