Physical therapy, day four

So I’m lying on the bunk bed and Dr. C**** (who is kind of hot even though I think she’s a l*sbian) is pouring some cold water-based, transparent colloidal goo over my knees in order to get the electrodes attached with the bandages.

The thing that worries me the most is-- since I’m doing this early in the morning I sort of just sprang out of bed and breezed through the shower, then slipped a shorts & t-shirt combo over my still-moist body, and went straight to the physical therapy place which is pretty near my own place, and where Dr. C**** delivers electric shock to my knees among other weird sh*t on a daily basis-- I’m not really wearing any underwear and this whole gay-girl-in-white-apron bit added to the electrodes actually make for one hell of a…. funny combination.
You know…

Then she’s asking me whether the shock gizmos are strong enough and I keep saying, “Oh crank it up, I can take it” because I’m childishly assuming it’ll make me look tough before her eyes but in fact only makes the situation a lot worse, and my only way out of an embarrassing situation due to the aforementioned lack of underwear is thinking about novelist Kurt Vonnegut, who died last month, and was himself a very ugly person. I’m saying that because I’ve brought his Breakfast of Champions book to read while the electrodes do their thing, but also to avoid coming up with crazy thoughts about the situation at hand.

Or at knee.

Situation at knee.
…good one…

As in, “I’m so knee-deep into this egotrip of mine I’m almost lacking the time to have actual work done here.”