What story of your own would you remix, and how would you write it differently now?
I myself would rewrite this one, because oi, the words. So many of them, so overwrought. And then I would write a sequel to the post-mpreg, because Chris and his little girl, ah god, I'm dying of happiness just thinking about it. In fact, as I calculate it, I have approximately three more days to contemplate it, before the utter terror sets in. Woot! Let's go, then.
Last three days at work I took care of Kenny. Kenny crashed his motorcycle into a parked truck, and rumor has it they found him with part of his brain on the sidewalk. Now Kenny has a row of staples running around his head, and half his body doesn't work, and his brain is buzzing, boiling, just trying to process the damage and inflammation. Kenny needs a 24/7 sitter, because the half of his body that does work is in constant motion: Kenny keeps thinking he has to go to work, or pick up his bike, or run after his kids, and Kenny wants to grab some gatorade out of the fridge or lay down on the couch in the other room or -- or something. Kenny has a lot to say, too: calls for his son a lot, calls for his daughter, talks to his friends who aren't there. Actually, Kenny is surprisingly verbal for someone completely out of it a week ago, and surprisingly interactive and cooperative with us: his mom told me Kenny was kind of a jerk, before, kind of angry all the time and with no sense of humor. Now Kenny calls his one sitter "mom" and his other sitter "gramma", and says "hey, beautiful" when I come into the room, and when Kenny started on oral intake, he told me "love them ice chips, man, I could live off that shit," and almost smiled when I laughed.
So yeah, Kenny has a bit of my heart. The other night I sat with Kenny for a half hour while his sitter went on break, and I realized pretty quickly that although we're supposed to try to reduce sensory input by remaining quiet and out of sight as much as possible, Kenny kept trying to find me, kept trying to heave his dead left arm and leg over so he could see me. So I moved over next to him, and Kenny said, "I don't know who this guy is in bed with me, but he's pissing me off" (referring to his left side), and then Kenny flang his right leg over the rail and settled his foot on top of my crossed knees. "You trying to kick me, Kenny?" I asked him, and he said, "Nope," and closed his eyes. Then he wriggled his toes down in between my knees, and I sat there while he slept, holding onto his warm foot like that, until the sitter came back.
Oh! Wow, I opened a Word file. We're cruising now.