I'm a clever dick. I don't mean that especially arrogantly- this is nowt to do with intelligence- I'm just one of those people who always has an retort, and a usually inappropriate one at that. It really get me nowhere (apart from occasionally on nights out, when I can 'banter' myself a free drink by pretending Lad culture doesn't piss me off). Every fortnight, we have ward round, where we negotiate leave and privileges and all that bollocks. Today was my day and, like every bloody two weeks, my complete clever dickishness got in the way and my melodrama let rip (which was a good job, 'cause it entertains me when I know I've been waaaaay over the top, rather than getting upset about the subject in hand) and I get absolutely nowhere.
The psychiatrist wants my weight? Refuse, 'cause, well, I just don't think he DESERVES to know, if I'm honest. The psychiatrist says I'll lose all my leave if I don't let them? Wind him up by telling him to stop spitting his dummy out. Absolute textbook clever dick move, because, what it really comes down to is, at the end of the day he goes home. If I don't get on the scales I don't even get my 2 hours out to the bloody supermarket (more than necessary for the amount of Pepsi Max I drink), and melodramatically pissing him off, entertaining as it was, isn't going to get me anywhere. I wanted an extra few hours so I could go watch Gatsby and he refused. Absolutely no reason why, other than I'd pissed him off. My favourite book in the world, and I'm not allowed to go see it. He always refuses to extend my leave from twice a week because of calorie expenditure, but he can't really say that I'd be burning more calories sitting on my arse in the cinema. It can't be because I'm too high risk, or I'd lose all my leave. So it really was an achievement for my melodramatic clever dick side.
If you're shy and retiring, you might think being a clever dick makes us dicks hard or whatever, but it's most definitely not as you'd think it is, 'cause most of us clever dicks are all talk and no bollocks. I'm definitely bollock-less, although I often forget and get caught up with wild threats. Luckily, my melodrama today just left me storming out... doing jazz hands. No, really. I can't even do jazz hands properly, but God loves a tryer. Jazz hands and impressions, going out the door- clearly a knobhead move- but not quite as bad as when I got really badly shouted at by a nurse and ended up screaming after her, as she stormed off after eventually getting her fill of shouting at me, 'GO AWWWWN, WALK AWAY! WALK AWAY YER FUCKING PUSSEH!'
So really, that's progress. Or just that the psychiatrist is a bloke built like a brick shit house and I'm a 1.6m Anorexic. Either or.