Something is awry inside me. It feels like French farce. Seductors in towels running room to room, doors slamming. It has been going on for a month at least.
Nothing particularly odd is coming out of me. But something odd is going on inside. My intestines feel like a habitrail. My ribs like cat-splayed mini-blinds. Sometimes it is like a stitch in the side. My smoking is nearly imperceptible, my cardio routine is down to the lake with Buddy on sunny days, twice a week. I found an old sample of Prevacid and have begun that. Claire, who lives next door now, is ceding the remainder of her ulcer medicine to me. That should get me through Xmas. If I die I know it will be just when I get my hair just like I like it.
My hebdomadal binges on Friday nights do not seem to affect it.
No comments:
Post a Comment