Mr Irion surprises me.

Saturday — When I woke up my back hurt worse than it did yesterday, plus I picked up a toothache overnight.

No way am I pushing the pushcart to Telegraph. Today's a day to stay in bed, lose a workday's wages, and get a little bit closer to bankruptcy. 

Listened to baseball in Spanish, as the Mariners beat the Yanquis again. The series is tied, two games apiece. Yahoo, señor.

With pain at the top and middle of my body, I'm in no mood to write, so this is all you get.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Sunday — I've spent most of the day flat in bed, with a heating pad radiating warmth but not relief. My tooth hurts a little less than yesterday, but my back hurts lots worse.

Midday I dropped a poop, and it was painful sitting down, painful squeezing it out, very painful standing up again, and impossible to wipe my ass.

On the way back to bed, I stopped at my desk long enough to type this (standing up), but the heating pad beckons, full blast, to melt my skin and take the pain away please.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Monday — My back feels better, tooth still hurts. How come none of you bastards have sent me a get well card?

♦ ♦ ♦

Judging myself well enough to walk and work, I BARTed to the city and breakfasted again with Mark, at The Cove in the Castro. He asked me to autograph his copy of the interview in Interview, which is ridiculous but what the what. "Thanks for the omelet and coffee. —Doug."

We talked about this and that, and the pain in my mouth exploded when my fork touched the rotted tooth. I slightly screamed, and Mark asked what was wrong, so I told him I was miserable.

"Can't afford a dentist?" he asked.

"I am proud to be an American," I answered. England has had universal health and dental care since the 1940s, but they're pussies. We're tough. We're Americans, damn it. We don't need no stinkin' health or dental care.

Or if we need it, we're sure as hell never gonna get it. Not so long as Republicans roam the earth.

♦ ♦ ♦

The food at The Cove is good, but the portions are small, so I bought two bagels at a shop down the street and ate them while walking to Black Sheets. My tooth didn't like that, but my belly did, and I chewed real careful.

Black Sheets is the magazine where I work on Mondays, and it is not exactly The Atlantic. It's a vivid, explicit, enthusiastic celebration of all things sexual, from every perspective and for any persuasion. Highly recommended for the open-minded and horny.

Imagine my surprise, then: There's a new issue of Black Sheets going into the mail, so most of my work day was sticking subscriber labels onto plain manila envelopes, and one of the stickers was addressed to my high school biology teacher. Unusual last name, same first name, same suburb where I grew up, so it's definitely him.

I was tempted to include a note with his copy, but that might get me in trouble. Jeez, though. Always thought Mr Irion was one of the most boring people on earth, but I guess he knows more about biology than how frogs do it.

From Pathetic Life #17
Saturday, Sunday, and Monday,
October 7-9, 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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