I'm once again deep in the bowels of Emory University Hospital, having been injected with radioactive stuff and drinking my barium sulfite smoothie. I'll enjoy the comfort of my 11 x 7 cell for an hour until Sara returns to take me to The Tube.
Until then, I have a couple of new things to accompany me. One is somebody playing radio station B98.5 at ridiculously high volume in the room behind me, which I assume is a staff lounge. The other is Big Brother, the watchful eye of a Panasonic video camera mounted high above the door to the room. I'm trying to think of the most entertaining think I could do in order to determine if anyone's really watching me. Might be time to bust a move. I'll wait for the right song to come blaring through the wall.
By the way, according to the several-years-old laminated info sheet push-pinned to the wall next to me, one of the benefits of PET is to identify "distant occult metastases." A guess that explains my sudden desire to stream Season One of X-Files via Netflix. Ooh, that Scully was one fine investigator, no?
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