Dear God. They just keep coming. They come at all hours of the day and night, unannounced and expecting to be seen and talked to. The phone has not stopped ringing between the hours of 7am and 11pm for about 5 days, and even on the off-peak hours it's not guaranteed that we will have quiet. Do you think I can pay people to go away?
I have been told that I have to come and make nice. These people happen to be distant relatives, but still, I didn't invite them, so why do I have to be sociable? I don't like people, ok? Or, at least, if I do, I like them on my terms.
So I went upstairs, put some shoes on and did my hair. I am now more dressed up than I am for work. Then I get aggro from my father because people have turned up again who we weren't expecting. Yes, that's my fault, apparently.
But before this becomes too teenage angst-y, let's talk medicine.
Lovely Doctor who flew with me out of Houston has been calling almost every day. He rang today to say that, having thought about it, he is of the opinion that Evil Dissenting Doctor is wrong and was giving advice out of misinformation. Even though he is a pulmonary oncologist and not a pancreatic one, he has seen all the documentation on my father's case, which Dissenting Doctor apparently did not. Fine.
I am still of the opinion that we have a case of too many cooks here and that they are all simply depressing and confusing my father. Who, by the way, is very chirpy, even without the legal weed that they told him he could have. Seriously, they are going to come to our house and roll him marijuana, on doctor's orders. And it's the good stuff too, they say.
In any case, I am feeling a bit put out, because I didn't sign up to look after all of my father's friends. It's as if they need emotional support. They turn up and shake their heads and thank god it's not them. But that's the cynic in me. So long as it helps him, I will serve coffee. In fact, I will serve 20 cups of coffee an hour, I will wash the dishes, I will clean the house top to bottom and be general slave labour so long as I don't have to sit and smile.
So what do I do instead? I bring up the Stamford Prison Experiment of 1971 and kill the conversation. Hopefully my parents will get the gist and send me upstairs to the computer. He he. Evil me.
I would like to take a poll. I wonder how I do that... ah ha!
So yes, I am making this interactive now. Like Choose Your Own Storybook, only Choose Your Own Blog. Kinda.