I have seven minutes to write, and at this point I need to grab every spare moment to dedicate to writing something. So what is there to say in seven minutes?
I could tell you how I ran from a patient this morning. Literally ran. And hid in a room until it was safe to emerge. You’re wondering what a patient could do to make me run, right? He tells bad jokes. Really, really, really bad jokes that he spits out in a rapid-fire, monotone voice. At any rate, he was sitting in the waiting area and saw me standing in the hall. I noticed him bound from his chair and begin to rapidly waddle in my direction (yes, apparently it is possible to waddle in a rapid manner if you have really, really, really bad jokes to share), so I took off down the hall and dove into a room. I did not move nor breathe until his voice stopped echoing down the hallway.
I wonder if telling horrible jokes is part of his illness.