I’m listening to the Apple News Today podcast while I bike straight into a revolving door and shatter every bone in my body.
People are coming and going in and out of the building through the adjacent doors without helping me. They don’t even take a second glance at the Ballardian orgy of flesh, rubber, and carbon fiber now compressed into a wedge-shaped space in the middle of the building’s threshold.
I am in immense pain. My existence has been reduced to various passing cell phone conversations, and immense pain.
About an hour later some paramedics show up unannounced, and load me into an ambulance piece by piece, with the urgency and enthusiasm of a haggard stay-at-home mom gathering toys off of a living room floor.
My recovery is long and immensely painful:
The hospital ran out of beds about six months into my stay, so I was moved to the roof and rolled up in a tarp for protection from the elements. They gave me incredibly strong drugs. I saw the faces of all my dead relatives, plus one ex-girlfriend who died of an overdose a few months after we broke up. There wasn’t much room inside the tarp for disembodied faces to float around, so their noses all brushed up against mine as they circled my head.
During my stay in the hospital I made an immense amount of money on crypto.