A conglomeration of posts arisen from the morphine-induced haze that was Saturday:

“Was brought to Emergency yesterday in unbearable pain, which unfortunately continues. Pain beyond the imprecision of words. I am still here…so full of morphine that I find myself fighting the urge to don a slinky, white gown, tuck a gardenia behind my ear, and slur out a steamy rendition of, “Lady Sings the Blues” for my nurse-sent-from-heaven, Johane. Where the fuck is The Piano Man?”

“”Fat Lady Sings the Blues”: Piano Man? Piano Man? Where the FUCK is The Piano Man?!”

“”Some junkie nurse has been stepping on my medication!” — Bill Burroughs”

“Here I lay suffering, and not a single offer to feed my kids, walk my dogs, or do my dishes. The list so far? A top-shelf Pina Colonic, several offers to generously take any extra medical-grade narcotics off my hands, a blow-job for my poor husband who is all alone and holding down the fort, and a request to shoot a scene in my hospital room for an indy one of them is directing. ALL HAIL THE MIGHTY JACKALS!”

“For all those who have so thoughtfully sent along offers of help — I was just fucking around to get a laugh. Gregory, in his usual way, has it all under control. Though my doctors are not yet releasing me from this joint, my little family is fine and dandy. Thanks to all for your sweet thoughts of love and healing — oh, and for your offers to blow my husband. He said he might just take you up on it.”