Flea ride

There's no winter to speak of here — Berkeley, California, a few miles from San Francisco. Summer can last until spring, and it's 82° this afternoon. Which isn't all that hot, but being fat is like wearing a heavy jacket you can't take off. Try wearing your winter jacket when it's 80+ out.

It's so hot, all I want to do is lie naked atop the blankets, fan blowing full blast to imitate fresh air, my legs flopped open wide so maybe the thick sweat under my balls will evaporate before it ripens into an itchy rash.

Ah, too late. I can feel the rash already, or is that another flea bite?

The only energy I mustered all day wasn't much. Got dressed in yesterday's clothes, walked to a hardware store, and bought a bug bomb for the fleas living in my room.

Back home I doublechecked to make sure the cat wasn't under the bed, then set off the fog and fumes and walked to the BART station. That's the only air conditioned space where I'm allowed to loiter.

Rode the train to Richmond, then Daly City, then Concord to Daly City again, Richmond a second time, and then home, in cool comfort all the way, reading zines and napping.

Got off at the same station where I'd gotten on, but for some stupid reason that's the most expensive ride on BART. Ah, but if you jump the gate, there's no charge. Who says there's no such thing as a free ride?

Now I'm at home, sleeping in the guest room, hoping the fleas are busy dying in my room. And it's still too hot.

From Pathetic Life #17
Thursday, October 5, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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