Phil & Jenny have a new blogging home on the intersphereagon. Phil’s blog got deleted a while ago so he needs one, and this one will have a bit more capabilities so it’s not a bad place for Jenny to be either. So…
It’s been 260 days.
I wanna know what it’s like to be awkward and innocent, not belligerent
I wanna know how it feels to be useful and pertinent and have common sense.. yeah
Let me in, let me in to the club, cuz I wanna belong
And I need to get strong, and if memory serves
I’m addicted to words and they’re useless
I had forgotten the trick of being straight–and out of shame.
Hemingway and Fitzgerald didn’t drink because they were creative, alienated, or morally weak. They drank because it’s what alkies are wired up to do. Creative people probably do run a greater risk of alcoholism and addiction than those in some other jobs, but so what? We all look pretty much the same when we’re puking in the gutter.
He writes of a friend:
“How much do you drink?” the counselor asked.
My friend looked at the counselor with disbelief. “All of it,” he said, as if that should have been self evident.
I can relate. As so kindly pointed out by generations of alcoholics and their kin, alcoholism doesn’t end when you put the bottle down. Now I’ve got to learn to put down the pizza, the television, the HIMYM and Scrubs, the music, the movies, the books, the news.
Heck, while I’m at it maybe I ought to deny myself, take up my cross, and follow him.
A Poem by Erundur Anwamehtar
I polish the plate and put it away
pile on the stack and push it back
its placid destiny set
no more memoirs of food to write tonight
the tableware beholds no more
For those of you who remember videos such as “Rejected” and “Ah L’amour” from the college years.
Yesterday I experienced one of the most intense bursts of pain I’ve ever felt. I mean awful — it blinded me of all other emotions and senses and feelings for the duration of the moment. Pain controlled me.
I thought I might fall over and pass out. This would’ve been somewhat awkward. Nobody wants to be found passed out in a toilet stall in a restroom on the ground floor of a skyscraper while waiting for the work day to begin. At least not in the third week of work — I’m not a rock star in the building yet. (And I’m no swinging Senator.)
Fortunately, I kept my wits about me during the five dragging seconds and remained conscious.
I’ve since spent the last two days constantly barraging ever potential enemy in site with water. I’d try little white pills, but I’m not sure any of them would work. And I recently fired my therapist for being too stringent on the dosages, and have yet to find a suitable replacement. Who knew Walgreens doesn’t sell candy to just anybody?
The good news is the water seems to help. I saw the doctor today and he told me this: “yeah, that’s probably it, drink a lot of water. If you start writhing in pain and can’t take it anymore, come back to the hospital and we’ll scan you.”
Here’s to hoping water does the trick. Bottoms up!