I have never before wished that someone smoked. Until today.
I'm sitting innocently, right? In the back of the ambulance. In my nice little jumper seat in which I always sit, ostricated from any conversation, with my neck tired from straining like an owl to see were we're going. I'm not complaining. Facts only in this blog -as if you haven't noticed already.
My preceptor's partner, "Kiki" (real name not given to protect the guilty), is jab-jab-jabbing (understand, "jabbing" is an understatement) on everyone and everything. "What is with everyone today?! It's not me... I started out good today!" Yeah, and all bad moods must start when you wake up or you'll never have one.
So I'm thinking, "Lady, you need a 'tude adjustment." And since I'm already sliding down the slippery slope of judgment, and don't believe she'll find it any other way, I'm also thinking (or more like my brain is screaming), "GO SMOKE A CIGARETTE!"
Then I noticed: She already was.
And, no. If you were wondering. A cigarette didn't help. Nor did the second or the third or the fifteenth.