Calling in a Favour

As if I was standing in an operating room, a scalpel in my hand and a patient on the bed in front of me. The noise of 5 frantic nurses arond me was drowned out by the beep…beep…beep of the patients heartbeat being projected onto digital equipment. The beeps were rapid though, and erratic. Something was wrong.
“Doctor!” a voice calls out towards me. “Doctor! Do something!”
Watching the monitor with his heart beat, I can’t help but to notice that the rhythm is quaking; his heart is slowing down and is about to stop. “He’s gone into arrest!” I yell, as a nurse draws defib paddles. THUMP! the monitor has a quick bounce on it, but the heart evens back out. THUMP! Again, the patients body seizes with the electric current, but nothing. THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! As a nurse wipes sweat from my brow, I sit in unified silence as the final beep is heard around the room. beeeeeep…. There is nothing more I can do. I am now helpless and this patient is gone.
“It’s time to call it, Doctor” a brown hair man says to me.

That is exactly how I feel right now, towards my bedroom. It is, in the first time in a while, messy as hell and I really don’t think I can help it. I believe that everything in life has a ‘point of no return’. That is, a stage where, once you reach it, it’s better to start again than to try and resuscitate what is still there. My bedroom is like that at the moment.

I’m considering that perhaps moving would be a more viable option. Or calling in an airstrike. Or start googling some terrorist groups and let them set up a lab in my bedroom just so everything then gets seized as evidence.
um, actually, only after I remove a few things.

OR, how about I petition you, my readers, to clean my bedroom? I’ll pay ya for it. Let me know!

Love, as always,

B