22/4, lunch

Kill me now! Sitting in the waiting room with Mom. My arm hurts like hell and mom's holding my hand, like I was a little kid. I'm about to cry, when all of a sudden I see a girl at the other end of the room. Looking at me! Doesn't happen every day. As if a chick would check me out, but I saw her eyeing me. You know, out of the corner of her eye. The way I do when I don't want them to notice. She had freckles. Light freckles. And then they call out her name: Klara. Klara. And then I remember. I'm holding moms hand! No kidding! Number one loser, unchallenged: Ossi Lindström! OK, might as well burn all your bridges on the same day. The doctor checked my arm. It was broken, a wrist fracture, or at least that's what I think she said. They're going to operate tonight. I'm not allowed to eat anything

(Mom promised that we would eat at McDonald's after the doctor, but might as well forget that for now) and I'm already starving to death. I'm not allowed to snuff (wet Swedish powder tobacco that you put under your lip) either. Mom didn't think that was important since I don't snuff. But I do. Just that she doesn't know. So now I'd like:

  1. A big mac
  2. A big pinch of snuff
  3. A whole arm
  4. A sweet girl with freckles (Maja is history. That goes for girl with the freckles too for that matter, since she thinks I'm such a mama's boy).

Instead I get:

  1. Water or a little tea.
  2. That's about it. And I get to sit here and blog in a ####ing waiting room until I go to the room where I'll crash tonight.
A blond girl sleeping in a bed with green sheets
Photo on the sly of Klara