Fuck you, Emergency Room.

I had to go to the Nashua Memorial Emergency Room on Monday night/Tuesday morning. Before you begin to wonder, I'm writing this right now so I assure you I didn't die.

My point is that that place is fucking unreal.

My folks and I walk in to find the place pretty jam-packed. So I'm like, "Shit...we'll have to wait awhile, huh?"

I walk up to the front desk and tell them my heart is racing a mile a minute and I'm cold and clammy and nauseated. I know I'm only 24 years old and only about 115 pounds but these are signs of a heart attack for a woman and I had had them for hours. I HATE hospitals, needles, and anything related to them and so I typically avoid them at all costs, but it was so bad that I actually agreed to go to the ER when my parents urged it.

Now one would think, when one goes up to the front desk of an ER and describes these symptoms, one would at least get a nurse to listen to one's chest with a stethoscope immediately. Or, I dunno...maybe get an EKG that takes all of two minutes?!?! If they had done this, I would not have minded waiting. The place was full and I understand that. I understand that if someone came in who was in a terrible car accident and was hurt quite badly that they are priority. I am not an unreasonable person. I simply expect some basic care so that they and I know that I am not about to keel over any second; I will then wait my turn.

But it was two fucking hours before a nurse even came by to take my fucking blood pressure. Are you JOKING me? Jesus, I KNOW it's not a fucking heart attack now because I'd be fucking DEAD, you morons! And it was yet another hour and fifteen minutes before they actually took me in to be seen by a doctor and hooked up to machines and shit.

But the best part is this, my friends: that emergency room is filled to the fucking brim with...ummm...interesting people. I mean, I get these people are sick--both mentally and physically. I'm not making fun here (well, maybe a LITTLE bit), but it's not exactly CALMING when you think you may be dying at the ripe old age of 24 and you're surrounded by schizophrenics who are LITERALLY whispering phrases to themselves such as, "I know I have schizophrenia, but it's not like I'd ever KILL anyone!" Yeah, not cool. Then a girl walks in with a bucket in hand, sits down across from me, and promptly violently vomits into it. On more than one occasion. Oh, and should I mention the near-fist-fight that almost occurred when some incredibly drunk lady starting playing with this Spanish guy's kids and he didn't much care for that? I mean, not that I blame him--I got intoxicated everytime the woman walked past me, like hell would I allow her anywhere near my kids if I had any.

And finally, the piece de resistance: the prostitute with blood all over her face, hair and hands, who came in with the two hot police officers. When questioned by the officers, said prostitute told them that her pimp beat her up. Yep. That's right. I guess that Monday was a slow night and she didn't make enough to please him.

So, I'm thinking: Monday night's entertainment was so wonderful, that this weekend I may make myself a cocktail and head over to Nashua Memorial. Better than any bar or lounge, and no cover charge. ;)