Still sick, sorry.

Yesterday I was barely able to stand or walk, so weak I had to steel myself and push myself and force myself even to scratch my balls.

The dizziness worried me until I remembered I hadn't eaten since some crackers on Tuesday. No appetite, then or still, but I shoved a cheese sandwich and a cup of ramen into me.

Planning ahead, I called Andrea and backed out of a babysitting gig for Friday night, but I didn't wimp out on Saul, the wheelchair Republican.

He'd already moved the boxes and light stuff, but he needed me for the furniture and heavy stuff, and he needed to be out by the end of the month. So I sighed and puked and BARTed across the bay to his address, told him to keep his distance, and me and some friend of his dragged everything out and into a truck and then into his new place.

Then I came home and collapsed.

♦ ♦ ♦  

That was Thursday, but I didn't write about it until much later. I've been feeling a tad under the weather, low on the strength it takes to type, so 'yesterday' and 'today' and the next several entries are based on messy notes and hallucinatory recollection, but weren't actually written until Wednesday and Thursday the 6th and 7th of March.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

On Friday I slept. That's all I did. A gag reflex woke me in the afternoon, in the middle of a coughing jag, as I pulled a muscle I didn't know was there, at the base of my tongue, stretching up the walls at the back of my mouth. It hurt lots more than it sounds like it possibly could.

Never have I ever been so sick. What else, sweet Jesus? Plague of locusts, perhaps? I was ready for a goopy metallic space alien to burst out of my chest. 

Then I fell asleep again, and woke up on Saturday.

From Pathetic Life #22
Friday, March 1, 1996 

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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