Tired. I’m a bit tired. It’s not that I haven’t been OH F@#K DID I FORGET HOW TO DO THIS?

I just saw a flash forward of the future of that train of thought and it was going to be at LEAST three paragraphs of me talking about sleep and sleeplessness and it was so horrifically boring that it almost put me into a coma, solving this sleep thing once and for all.

There’s an art to writ–okay, wait.

There’s something broken.
I broke something.
I’m not sure when I broke it — or how broken it is,but it definitely FEELS broken.

Each time I start to write a sentence, it feels like I’m Writing A Sentence. “There’s an art to writing a blog.” People don’t speak like that in real life! No one I hang out with anyway.

Did I break me? It’d be more of a tear, because I’ve been told that writing is just a muscle that you need to exercise or it atrophies. No one ever tells you writing is a bone. That’d be an extremely weird thing to say largely because there’s no follow up that makes sense. “Writing’s a bone, and reading is like drinking milk.”

…okay yeah I guess that milk thing works, but when I started writing it I hadn’t thought of the milk thing and I was going to let it drift awkwardly to prove my point. “Writing’s a bone… so… don’t uh, calcify.”

Maybe that means I didn’t COMPLETELY break me? It’s just been so long since I’ve written anything that it’s more like breaking a fast. Like, a writing fast. Not like, you know, something you use racist syrup for.

Yes, that’s the meaning of the word “breakfast” to Break the Fast (cessation of eating) by using racist-ass syrup.

Awkward huh?

Breaking isn’t the right word —  muscles don’t break, they tear.

I’m not sure what the cause of the tear was but I have a couple of suspects.

(Not to be confused by The Usual Suspects written by Christopher McQuarrie who then went on to write the really good Way of The Gun and then the horrifically bad Jack Reacher which I saw only 18 hours ago and was so bad that I can’t even use the word SUSPECTS in a paragraph without my brain being drawn inexorably to that 2 hour disasterfest which Peter Travers LOVED for reasons that I can only chalk up to insanity or scientology or a level of movie appreciation that is so refined that I just don’t get it.)

Suspect #1. New Years Eve.

I woke up hungover at 8am on New Years Eve. Not Day. Eve. This is a bad thing. That’s the one morning you’re supposed to wake up AFTER the morning, well rested. New Years Eve is an all “p.m” day if you’re doing it right. You wake up at Xp.m., with an IV drip of Saline, Water, and Optimism so you can greet the new year with style. I did no such thing, and then skipped a couple of meals which was good because when I later discovered that it’s possible to both walk and vomit at the same time, the absence of digested food made it 2% (reading) less disgusting than it would’ve been otherwise.  I don’t think that was the worst thing I did all evening, either, but my BFsF (who pluralizes “Forever”?)  won’t tell me which either makes them BEST friends or WORST ones, the jury is STILL out.

Suspect #2 My Lung Collapse.

I didn’t THINK my writing muscle was in my rib cage, but I am -certain- that my lung collapsed a couple of weeks ago which prompted a doctor to just JAB about 10 INCHES of tubing into my chest cavity, so if my writing muscle was there, he may very well have punctured it.

If not him, then maybe the x-ray tech who buffeted my torso with radiation also managed to scramble one of the few things that I’m half-way decent at.

Suspect #3 The Subsequent Drug Problem.

Dilaudid. So for four days they pumped a drug called Dilaudid into my system. I’d never heard of it because I don’t (didn’t) have a drug problem, why would I? It’s a class two narcotic, and man that crap sells itself . This is the one time I can say with complete accuracy, after just one try “I was hooked!”

The nursing staff (foolishly) told me I could have it up to every two hours. So I did.

The very last day, right before they took out my IV (but long after they’d removed my chest tube) I asked the nurse for “one more hit of that dilaudid stuff”, and DISGUSTED she shook her head no. She may have also SAID no, but I couldn’t hear her over the sound of me scratching all of the remaining flesh from my body.

You know in retrospect I didn’t care for her disgusted facial expression. I didn’t f@#king show up at the hospital with an addiction to Dilaudid, you know?

That’s THEIR bad.

Conclusion: The dilaudid that did this. Who did this? Dilaudid.

Bonus Round: Imagine yourself asking Aunt Jemima who did this. Being religious she’d probably say that the lord was responsible. If when she says it, it sounds like the drug, it might mean you just made a racist slave voice in your head. Nice move.




Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>