It’s been a good few weeks of misery.
Due to the unfortunate area of the burns, my whole arse, scrotum & now inevitably penis have succumbed to infection.
I’m back in double traction at the QE Hospital.
The pain is unbearable & I fear what may become of me.
The doctors & specialists are deeply (gravely) concerned. They humour me but I see & feel the hopelessness. I know I’m done for.
I’ve a fucking nappy & a huge Tampax up my backside. My balls resemble a bunch of black grapes & my cock may be removed due to severe sepsis.
I’ve drains on both cheeks. My cock & bollocks get syringed as & when required.
They remove pints of yellow & green bloody pus daily. It stinks.
A new cock can be fashioned from a flap removed off a cadaver’s arse. That’s meant to give me hope!
If it weren’t for the traction & potent meds I think I’d jump out of the window as I’m 200ft up. I’m so ill.
The moans of pain & agony on this ward are loud & constant. I’m the only fucker here with the rights to moan.
Why can’t I just have a brain tumour? An exploding aneurysm.
I’m done. Fucking Parazone wipes.
I’ll keep you posted.
Keep toilet disinfectant away from your arse.
These are the buggers that I accidentally used on my now diseased backside.
A perfectly honest mistake.
There needs to be a large, cautionary warning. The packet should be bright red or something.
They could place an image of my arse, cock & balls on the front like a cigarette pack.
So many have examined my private parts now I honestly no longer care. I’ve no shame or ignominy.
They photographed me! I’ll probably be in The Lancet.
They fried my arse.
If I make it I’ll be writing to my MP.