update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/embodied-exegesis.md

@@ -12,3 +12,25 @@
     * Going back to transitioning
     * List of things that are more pleasant
     * A friend
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+I thought it would be different. I thought it would be cleaner, perhaps. Cleaner, or far more grimy, all exposed pipes and puddles of unexplained liquids pooling in dark corners while the brittle lighting of shitty fluorescents flickered. Give me the clean LEDs over that, the well-polished linoleum and stainless steel, doctors with surgical gowns and nurses with fibrous booties strapped over their oh-so-comfortable shoes.
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+Saskatoon Central Ansible Clinic was none of these. Where one might expect a hospital check-in desk, thick plexiglass separating the clientele from the assistants, there was a row of podiums, each bearing a tablet with a grip-bar beside it, a way to check in using the implants embedded on the middle joints of one's fingers. Where one might expect the cold, hard chairs o f a hospital waiting room, blessed with the thinnest layer of padding, there were instead plush chairs upholstered in linenette and love seats. Where one might expect bare walls, calm paintings and potted plants softened the cream-colored paint further, spider plants stringing trails behind water coolers.
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+Check in was simple. Slide my fingers around the grip bar until the magnetic contacts pulled at those NFC pads embedded in skin. Wait as patiently as I could while the tablet whispered a series of disclaimers against my cochleae through the tendrils of my exo. Shift my weight from side to side and give my assent to the questions with a nod and a tap of the thumb.
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+Yes, I understand that uploading is irreversible.
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+Yes, I understand that uploading is destructive.
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+Yes, I understand that there's a risk. *There's a risk to staying behind, too,* I think, but carefully do not say.
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+Yes, I understand that the financial payout to designated next of kin will be– cancel. No, there is no next of kin. If you're not going to let me will it to a foundation, I guess the government can have it.
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+*Yes, I understand,* I indicate time and time again, perhaps two dozen times in total, before I'm finally given a number and told to sit down.
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+The wait wouldn't be unbearable if it weren't for the lingering weight of import straddling my shoulders, a petulant child tugging at my hair and whining about how this is the wrong thing to do, that there's gotta be some better way, this is irresponsible. Ten minutes with that weight and those whispered words would be bad enough, but then we hit twenty. Thirty. It wouldn't be so bad if–
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