and speaking of hospitals, don’t get me started on the number of lectures I got from doctors about not being on the pill, without them asking me anything about my sexual history or current practices, even though at the time I hadn’t had sex in a way that could initiate a pregnancy in about eight months. and not correcting them, not being loudly queer, because they were rushing me through to necessary procedures and I was worried that if I seemed too pushy or problematic they wouldn’t be so helpful. already desperately sinking into my privilege the second I could, and feeling fucked up and guilty and scared and etc etc etc. de-radicalization in the face of sickness is a funny, awful thing. and also: “do you have a boyfriend?” “no.” “oh, c’est dommage” (too bad).  also making hospital time somewhat carnivalesque was the fact that I was brand new to montreal and didn’t realize that the medical system is broken up into french and english hospitals, so I accidentally ended up at a french one, in the middle of the night, totally exhausted and trying to mime my health problems to non-anglophone doctors. at least I didn’t have to pay for that shit, thank god thank fucking god. someday we can talk about how sexy my hospital outfits became. I got decked out. my body was trembling but my ensembles were impeccable. #feminist makeupping vs the medical state also sometimes my family’s cynicism makes things better: my mom: “emily was crying because her favorite venue is in a basement and she’s scared she won’t be able to access poetry readings there if she’s in a wheelchair.” rich conservative uncle: “wait, what’s sad about that? that she’d want to go to poetry readings?” and also me: “good news, the doctors think it might just be a mild form of epilepsy” mom: “that IS good news. and you know, if you’re at a party and the person you’re talking to is boring, you can just fake a seizure and get out of the conversation that way. no harm no foul!”