You stop taking your meds. You feed your face. You continue drinking. You laze around or go to work or whatever the hell you do, until the grim reaper comes calling. And then you get to me, the ICU nurse.

Hey, I'm all for an adult beverage. There is nothing like a fabulous meal. Lord knows I've had my fun. But come on, people, get it together. You weigh 300, 400, 500-plus pounds? You're on anti-depressants or blood-pressure meds, and you think it's a good idea to just stop?

You've landed your ass in my ICU; if you want to live, act like it. Quit the whining, the crying, the passive- aggressive manipulative behavior that got you here. I'd love to see you get well, but only if you want to. Otherwise, I don't give a fuck. I'm not your cheerleading squad, I'm not your coach, and I'm not your fucking mother. So take a moment, get over yourself, and make the decision: Do I want to die? Because otherwise, you're wasting my time and my other patients' time. Right now, you're just job security to me.