I stared at the ceiling waiting for Doc to get finished.
I hate this. I mean I REALLY hate this.
Sometimes I wish he'd put me under when he works. It feels like someone is poking at my intestines or... something since I'm not sure they're there anymore. It doesn't hurt but it just feels... wrong.
I've had the hardware over a year now, and every time Doc has to fix something...
I guess all things considered it's a small price to pay, and it was my choice, but I just don't think I'll ever get used to this feeling.
And then there's that smell. The smell of burnt plastic and metal and a little synthflesh mixed in whenever he used the welder. Acrid, harsh... it makes my stomach twist up every time. Kind of glad I skipped breakfast.
I wish he'd hurry up. This is taking forever.