The long nightmare is now over.
Okay, “nightmare” is probably an exaggeration. And it’s not quite over…
Here’s the story (some of you may already know some of this):
The weekend before my birthday earlier this year, I went to a movie (shocking, I know) called Hard Candy. The premise seemed interesting and the reviews were good.
It was good. What I saw of it, anyway.
I was fine until about an hour or so in. Once they got to the castration scene, I really felt like I was going to throw up, so I left the theatre, and sat down on a bench in the lobby. My field of vision was practically all white, and I had a high-pitched buzzing in my ears. Still feeling sick, I decided to try for the bathroom, the door to which was only about 10 ft. away from where I was sitting. I remember trying to step over the velvet rope, and then people were pulling me up off the ground and putting me back on the bench. Not sure how long I was out, but the paramedics arrived quickly. Took my blood pressure, and put an oxygen mask on me. One of the EMTs said my skin was totally drained of color (considering how I’m normally so pasty, I’m not sure how he could tell the difference). I bounced back pretty quickly, but they said they still had to take me to the hospital to get checked out, and that the gash on my chin would probably need stitches.
So, 3 hours and 11 stitches later, I was back home. Later that week, I went in to get the stitches removed. I still have a scar, but it’s not that bad. If anyone asks me about it, I think I'll tell them I got it from an extreme sports wipeout, or maybe while I was saving kittens and orphans from a raging fire. Either sounds more manly and badass than "I'm a pussy who couldn't handle a scene in a movie I was watching."
The good news is that my insurance covered everything. Almost. Since getting the stitches removed was deemed a “non-emergency”, insurance only covered 50%, leaving me with a bill in the amount of… $23.50. The check cleared my account this week. So that part is done.
The only unresolved thread in this particular narrative is that I never got to find out how the movie ended. But I’m going to, dammit, even if it kills me (which, given what’s happened thus far, it very well may). So I’ve added it to my Netflix queue. I intend to watch it lying on the floor (away from any and all hard surfaces and sharp edges) with a bucket at the ready.
Because no movie beats me. Ever.
Here’s the story (some of you may already know some of this):
The weekend before my birthday earlier this year, I went to a movie (shocking, I know) called Hard Candy. The premise seemed interesting and the reviews were good.
It was good. What I saw of it, anyway.
I was fine until about an hour or so in. Once they got to the castration scene, I really felt like I was going to throw up, so I left the theatre, and sat down on a bench in the lobby. My field of vision was practically all white, and I had a high-pitched buzzing in my ears. Still feeling sick, I decided to try for the bathroom, the door to which was only about 10 ft. away from where I was sitting. I remember trying to step over the velvet rope, and then people were pulling me up off the ground and putting me back on the bench. Not sure how long I was out, but the paramedics arrived quickly. Took my blood pressure, and put an oxygen mask on me. One of the EMTs said my skin was totally drained of color (considering how I’m normally so pasty, I’m not sure how he could tell the difference). I bounced back pretty quickly, but they said they still had to take me to the hospital to get checked out, and that the gash on my chin would probably need stitches.
So, 3 hours and 11 stitches later, I was back home. Later that week, I went in to get the stitches removed. I still have a scar, but it’s not that bad. If anyone asks me about it, I think I'll tell them I got it from an extreme sports wipeout, or maybe while I was saving kittens and orphans from a raging fire. Either sounds more manly and badass than "I'm a pussy who couldn't handle a scene in a movie I was watching."
The good news is that my insurance covered everything. Almost. Since getting the stitches removed was deemed a “non-emergency”, insurance only covered 50%, leaving me with a bill in the amount of… $23.50. The check cleared my account this week. So that part is done.
The only unresolved thread in this particular narrative is that I never got to find out how the movie ended. But I’m going to, dammit, even if it kills me (which, given what’s happened thus far, it very well may). So I’ve added it to my Netflix queue. I intend to watch it lying on the floor (away from any and all hard surfaces and sharp edges) with a bucket at the ready.
Because no movie beats me. Ever.
posted by the breakfast ninja at 2:47 PM
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