This is what happens next.
Step 1: Secure admission release. This first step involves copious amount of begging; it helps to pinch the inside of your thigh to produce some watery eyes. Waver your voice appropriately and repeat the following: "I haven't slept in days. Please, please let me go home." It helps to refrain from showering at this point; the stench alone will point to your release. No one likes a smelly Kelly.
Step 2: Lay down in your hospital bed as you watch various family members and friends gather up your stuff. For this phase, you'll want to switch into cranky mode. "MAKE SURE YOU PACK MY SWEET MASK, YO!" When this is forgotten, retaliate with one very swollen finger. (That mask made me feel like a goddamn superhero!)
Step 3: Take the last of your drugs from the nurse, knowing that you won't have access to Dr. K (Klonolopin) until you get home. Pass out for the car ride home. Note: this portion of the recovery will be very hazy and involves sending incoherent text messages. A choice one, from myself to my friend: "Call bike suit." I'm not sure what that means, and judging from his lack of response, I don't think he did either.
Step 4: Set up shop in your childhood bedroom.
Step 5: Demand fan and sourdough pretzels. Refuse showering, as each step you take is wobbly and the last thing you need is a head injury. (On Saturday, I fell face forward into the tub whilst on the john, proof of my lack of strength.)
Step 6: Flood your minions with demands. "Apple sauce! Snapple! Sugar Free Twizzlers!" The sky is the limit, kid. Take full advantage. This is a diabetic's dream. Forget the protein, go with sugar free everything.
Step 7: Sleep. Dr. K has arrived in its bottled glory. Take a copious amount. Even though you will wake up every twenty minutes and continue to send questionable text messages, revel in the pain-free existence that K-dawg has brought into your life.
Step 8: Awake at sunrise and debate briefly taking Shea for a walk. One step out of bed proves your strength is not up for it. Crawl back into bed and watch and weep through the series finale of Family Ties.
Step 9: Stare in the mirror at the constellation of bruises from the Heparin shots injected into your stomach. Debate the best way to take a picture of this to send. Quickly realize that no lens in the world has the ability to siphon away this belly fat.
Step 10: Engage in brutal fight with Mother, who insists your smell is overwhelming the house. Hold your ground. You have earned the right to stink, and dammit, you will.
Step 11: Submit to shower. Reread the 100+ tweets you sent while under the influence. Question sanity and ability to function in society. Crawl back onto the couch and once again, yield to the power of mindless sitcoms on Comedy Central. Repeat the following mantra: "Sitcom, sitcom, slow death."
Step 12: Make goals for tomorrow, to add structure to your life. Suggestions include the following:
a) Go outside; a possible dip in the ocean is always healing
b) Find a freelance writing job, as your current life/work style is possibly unsustainable. (Help, Twitter!)
c) Find an apartment, as you must move in two weeks
d) Eat protein and lower your blood sugar so that you stop fainting
I think we're getting there, guys.