One, Two, Three o’clock, Four o’clock Rock

This picture was taken, not so much in the Halls of Medicine, as in the Bowels. But don’t worry kids, not only did I *not* bleed out, but they even threw some medication my way. I am sure I will be feeling better soon. If only i could say the same for the heat in my room. If only I could say there were some. i would remove my mittens and finish this painting.

Just as vitriol and self-pity reaches its shimmery apex, I receive a letter from my estranged father. His ticker has been pretty bum for years now, and I guess it’s outta gas, Game Over. So he is on the short list for a transplant. Which led me to wonder if they still transplant monkey hearts. Anyway, I wrote back to wish him luck. After all, a Morgan never dies. We have the aggravating tendency to prevail, if only to piss off other people. So my dad says “It’s really a simple matter to me. Either I survive or I don’t.” Say what we will about us Morgans, we are true Philosophers.


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