"I can't do it by Tuesday," she says as if she has to search her brain for the words. Look, I don't want it on Tuesday. Next Thursday is fine. Seven fucking days. She looks at the disclosure paperwork that I have given her, then back at me. I look in her eyes and see children on bicycles. "I can't do it by today," says. I sigh. My patience rapidly eroding. I don't want it by today young lady. I want it by Thursday. I'm facing a court date and I need these medical documents. "You need them for all of your doctors?" Yes. "From 'when' to 'when.'" I point to it on the paper in her hand. From July 08 to Aug 09. She shakes her head. "I can't do this by today." I pat her narrow, bony shoulder. Get it done smartly.
This is going to be beautiful, my appearing to court without those documents because of an airhead. Life is good isn't it. I'm boiling down to one week. I've got to get something going here or Hobobob's ass is grass. I never really knew the point of that. What's wrong with grass. It's soft, beautiful, tranquil. Maybe I would like my ass being grass.
So life good is, isn't it? Well, I have more things to worry about. Yes...yes I do. You're probably sitting at home, before the television, enjoying a sitcom or two, with a glass of wine in your hand, or a beer, and you turn on your computer before going to bed, and here is this guy here that doesn't work, lives in a room, fighting the system daily just because he cannot find work, and you wonder: now what kind of problems could this guy have?
I don't know, when was the last time you woke up from a vivid dream puking in your mouth. Yeah, that's right, filling your mouth with a lumpy substance that feels like battery acid. I clamped my lips together just in time, causing my cheeks to take the force of the issue, swelling like the cheeks of a porn star with nuts in her mouth. I jumped up and fell into the wall. It seems that the room is rocking and lurching. I stagger to the door, my mouth now on fire, I yank open my door, stagger out into the hall and remember that I don't have a stitch of clothing on, not even socks. I whip around and catch my door before it closes and locks behind me and then get dressed with my pullover and keys, eschewing the sink full of my dishes. I could not eat off them after puking all over them.
I stagger down the hall, grab the doorknob of the bathroom on the right, only to find it locked. I whirl to the bathroom on the left. It was open. I don't lock the door behind me, I just walk in, lift up the toilet seat and hurl bile, liquidfied dinner and copious blood into the commode. The blood mixed in with my eaten dinner does not bother me. What bothers me is my burning throat and mouth. I rush back into the room and brush my teeth, then eat corn chips to scrub out the burning from my mouth. It works. No shit, it really works!
It's 6:30am. I'm not going back to sleep so why not make some coffee? I do. I make coffee and I pour myself a glass of water. I get behind my computer and begin to do what I love to do, write. Write baby. I want to die writing. I'm making a ton of typing errors that is really surprising. It's like I don't know where the keys are all of a sudden. Usually I have only to think of a word and my fingers will type it without much thought. Now, I'm fucking up royally. What's that about?
I raise my glass of water to my mouth and throw it's contents into my face.
After gasping and coughing I sit my glass down angrily. What in the world? I hold up my hands and there is nothing wrong with them and then....there! The right hand jerks and twitches, then falls still. Then the left hand does the same. Sonofabitch. Welcome to the world of tremors. I never even notice it really. Good thing for me that that glass of water wasn't a hot cup of coffee raised to my face. I would have been running down the hall, holding my face, cock and balls, where the coffee would have landed.
That's great. Now what is it? That's the thing about when you take too many drugs. You have to sort out the side effects. Is this the LUVOX saying a last goodbye, like with the fucking dreams that I'm still having, or is this the upping of my LYRICA? The reason why I asked for more LYRICA is that my body was already acclimated to it. Now is there going to be problems from it? Well, I have to say one thing, so far I still's got my MOJO.
Fuck all that! It's ALL about the MOJO. LUVOX can kiss my shiny black ass. I'll deal with the fucking stresses through therapy. That's what my psychiatrist tells me, that I'm not an Article 25, 28, 48, some shit. Which means that I'm so far gone that only medication can help me. Which means, if I don't come in, I'll be cut from therapy and have to go elsewhere. I wonder if you can strangle people to death with tremors?
I'm all over the place today. I am besieged by dizzy spells. Like a lightheadedness. As if my skull is full of helium. I can sit and swoon all day, and I do. I stay behind my computer, and stay. I work on my novel: TAKEN FOR DEAD. I IM my brother and ask if he can cover the SHOUT OUT for me and I'll cover on some other dates. He said it would be no problem. Super. I can stay home, off my feet and relax from staggering around all the way to the SHOUT OUT. I stay home in peace and work on my novel.
The problem is when all of my friends say good night, and I am sitting there typing away and the sun rises behind me. Holy Shit! It's daytime. It sneaks up on me just like that. I am tired, so I do climb into bed for a few winks only to wake up at 9:00. 9:00! I can go downstairs and get some breakfast.
I go downstairs. There is the guy with the amazingly large beer belly. He gets on the elevator with me. The old guy gets off. He's the one that lives right next to me. He gets drunk on Saturday evenings and shouts obscenities and racial epithets out of his window. Everyone ignores him. Must make him worse. There is the giggly woman that reminds me of Aunt Jemima in the elevator already. The three of us head down to the first floor, and into the cafeteria. We get on line. A thief walks in, on edge that he had just gotten past security and is in the cafeteria looking for something to steal. The Black Crows, a group of women who are loud and cliquish on my floor are there, standing on the edges of the tables, flapping their wings and cawing. He has to go through them just to look around. He changes his mind and returns to me, giving up, "Where's the coffee?" He asks me. I motion to the cafeteria window with my head. He goes to the condiments table, looks around for something to sell, then to a man standing next to him. "Where is the sugar?" He points to the cafeteria window. I get my breakfast and someone touches me on the shoulder. It's little Snow White, my case worker. Can I come sign some papers? I go into her office and sign papers. I speak to her about helping my social worker arrange for a vehicle to pick me up and take me to my appointments and if she could ring my room buzzer on the days that I have therapy. As for my Social Worker she said that she would call him.
But I change my mind from all that shit. Just the annoying buzzer and scrub the vehicle. I'll stick to the Way. That's probably the reason that I'm not crazy now. New York if filled with people and they make it my home.
Maybe that's why I'm not full out fucked in the head already.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2009/08/forgotten-hopes-of-foolish.html
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