The Somber Change of Seasons

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I awoke to a pinched nerve in my neck.

The pain went from my neck down through my shoulder and across to my back. The pain was excruciating. I got up to take a piss and my foot protested. The bunion getting more and more pronounced, aching with an even greater pain. I limped into the bathroom and then walked hunched over and limping out to my bed. If I ever needed them goddamned Advils, I needed them now.

I popped those fuckers like bunnies, and got my gear and headed out of the door. I made it down to the Way and up to Bryant Park. It was a cold, brisk morning, a fall morning. The leaves of the trees were turning brown, rows upon rows of trees, still creating a shadowy canopy over the park walk ways. I took out my camera and snapped a few pictures for the online magazine to go with my article. I used to take many pictures of the park, a long time ago. I used to even post them on the blog. I used to do a lot of things.

Afterward, I walked the park and noticed that the skating rink was going up already. It's around fifty degree weather out and they're already putting up the ice skating rink. What kind of shit is that? They're ready to rush ahead the change of the season. Although it's October already. November is just around the corner. Can't they be a little patient? It's not even Thanksgiving yet for Chrissakes.

This somber change in the season is affecting my mood also. It's causing me to think more about morose things, to dwell on the sad, melancholy things of life. Not a good subject to dwell on if you ask me. And no, I'm not thinking of taking a razor to my throat, but I am blue. I was told that psychologically the change of seasons can bring this about, but then again, what the fuck is my WELBUTRIN for?? Maybe I need to up the dosage?

Whatever. I make my way, limping like Quasimodo down the street, the Advil not doing shit for the pain, and if it was, I am grateful. That would only mean that it could be worse. I checked the maximum HUMAN dosage on the bottle. No more than six in a twenty four hour timespan. That means, I'm going to take the maximum LETHAL dosage, which will probably be ten in twenty four hours, and cut it back a half a pill. I'm in THAT much pain.

I go directly to the library and get to work. I go through my email, and do some surfing before a tiredness follows the malaise. I begin to nod off, so instead, to give me a pick me up, I play 2142. Then it is time to go to my therapy session. I was supposed to go to one yesterday, but I didn't. I know it's going to get tougher to go to my Tuesday sessions because it will. But my Wednesday meeting is a charm. I scoot over there and meet up with Dr. L and we have our session, that once again goes quite quickly. I tell her of a little event that has happened to me in the Box that I can't go over with you right now, but we had a long discussion over it.

Before I know it, it's time for us to call it quits and for a urine sample. Did I ever tell you that I get a urine sample taken by the good Dr L. every once in awhile? Yeah, they test you here to see if and what you are using. If you're going to be clean, you have to mean it. And I'm clean as a whistledick, thanks to NALTRAXONE. NALTRAXONE, the wonder drug for all alcoholics. Dr. A. tells me that it's a mild narcotic, so it fills the gap in my brain that alcohol does. Thus, making the need for alcohol moot. Simple. The magic pill for all of you alkies out there. NALTRAXONE. And your doctor will give it to you, you pack of scurvy.

I can't say that I don't miss alcohol though. I would like the feeling that a snoot full of hooch gives. But that's neither here nor there. I piss in the cup and stow it away in the specimen box. I say goodbye to the good doctor and head back across town to the Madison Library where I try once again to play a good game on 2142. The day is tiring if you ask me. Then I prep my article, building my email packet with the photos that I took this morning, and my article itself in Word Format, wrapped them all up as attachments and sent them on their way to my editors. Another job done.

The next question for me is, where is my next article coming from? I have one more in the hopper to be sent to the editors for next week, but after that, I'm dry. I have to find something to report on, to keep up. I need to be beating the streets for information, for attractions. For something that will make a good story. I found one, recently, called LIAR. A play with four people telling interesting true stories, and one is telling total falsehoods. And you have to pick the person out for a free tee shirt. For $12.00 admission, it might not be a bad night out. I have their marketing pack and just may interview them before they start.

Then again, after some inves- tigation, I find that they have been playing for almost a year now. But still, I can still report on them, can't I?

Well, I find myself now, blogging in Starbucks, just moments away from heading back to the Box.

I wonder what's in store for me there tonight.

I'm tired.

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