Wednesday, May 6, 2009


There's good news and bad news about being sick. The good news is you can't do anything else except stay home, drink fluids, eat soup and sleep. The bad news is you can't do anything else. Here's the bad news for me, I can't do either. It's my day off, so this is when I can do that stuff. Drink juice, eat soup, eat toast, look at the screen. Figured I'd come and write in here. It's a gloomy, rainy day outside, one I love. I haven't been outside yet today for obvious reasons. I need to buy more food. I have enough to last for maybe a week? Did another meatloaf, so that'll last me. What I need is more soup, more medication. I have a bit more nyquil left, probably only two days worth, but I need more.

When you're sick, that's when it's all shot to hell. That's when you need food and drink. I can survive 8 hours with just coffee and water I discovered. Foolish to actually try it, don't ask why I did, but still foolish. But when you're sick, there's no way you can do that crap. You have to take care of yourself because if you don't, you don't get better. And if you don't get better, you get worse. There's things to be done, but it's hard to do when you're laid up in bed. Feels like just the time I'm sick is when everything happens. Family calls, friends want me to come out. I'd love to come out and play, but I can't. Need to stay here and get well. My family...well, mother's day is coming up, so you know where I'm headed. Have to get better before then so I can spend time with the family. Never seems to be time for just me. If there is time for me, I'm recovering from all the time not spent with just me. Spending the time trying to get better. Kind of funny too when I have someone asking me "how was your day off?" How about you fuck off and let me worry about that?

I don't do anything special because I'm too worn out to do anything special. To worn out. This year is the worn out year, though I felt myself lately starting to become stronger. Mostly thanks to Grieve Table. Grieve Table, Grieve Table, making me stronger. I can feel it. I feel important. I'm walking differently, slower, more cautious. Cautious about the world around me, the world that's going to eat me alive if I'm not careful. Everyone around me is zombies and they want a piece of me. Those zombie writers are write. Zombies are everywhere! They're on the streets, on buses, in subways. They were suits and ties or fancy dresses and are too suited to play with themselves. Those are the zombies. And they're just killing to eat you alive if you're not like them. Why would I want to be like them anyway?

People ask me what I do, do I go to school. No I don't go to school. What I do is write. But to them writing is not really doing anything. You have to be a lawyer, a doctor or some hotshot zombie-ass businessman to actually be doing something. I could care what they think. I could whine and cry about how they don't get me, or I could say fuck them and just do what I do and write.

"What do you write?" Does it matter? I write what I write to stay alive. If I'm alive, doesn't that matter? Apparently not because I have to do something with my life. But if I were dead or almost dying then writing to stay alive would be important. They would say "OH God! Yes, write to stay alive, don't die, don't slit your wrists, we love you!" But did you love me when I said I write and didn't do anything else. No you didn't? It's only at the brink of death when you realize how important I am.

Funny. I realized that myself. That's because I gave in to what everyone said. Gave in to the fact I was a loser, which I wasn't, but I thought I was because they said I was and so I was. And that's what I am now: a loser who writes. Difference is, I'm happy.

The orange juice goes down smoothly, the car on the street slides by. We're all living our lives the way we see fit. Last bit of toast goes down. I am doing something with my life. I'm trying to live and get better.

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