i know, drugs are my best bet. i already tried that. not for killing, just for a TKO. the pain and the spasms/dystonia/cramps/body-jerking-without-benefit-of-work-out-by-love-making broke through, leaving me prone to falling and dropping pills in the bed, on the floor, terrifying me for fear that the animals might eat them. so i've asked fred to vacuum. and make coffee with loads of milk. my stomach is bleeding.
days of mail to read, and i am afraid to read them. but i looked at the first email in line, it was from the aforementioned fred and consisted of this:
he found a website, a blog, something on the web in the form of a britney with the acronym AFPE, standing for anti-feminist, pro-equality. standing in front of me and mine tears, he raised britney to the status of that saint / whore mary, a woman of good sense and finely honed hatred of her extremist sisterhood. oh, the holes in fred's head.
last saturday, i did beaucoup baking and, in that exquisite process, burned the heck out of the side of my index finger on my left hand. it hurt like holy hell, then stopped. started up yesterday, and is now turning rapidly from blisters to ulcers. what kind of burn takes a week to do its ugly business?
oh, for a hole in my head.
so britney's blog is HERE. i don't much appreciate it, but, as i said, it fills a niche, and one of those niches is fred's antipathy for the extremist militant lesbian feminist existentialists, the alpha-wimmin at his sunday morning go-to-meeting place.
he just brought me coffee with loads of milk. my stomach is bleeding again. i forgot to post my POLST paperwork to this damned hospital bed, forgot, too, to put a cheerful DNR sign. that last bit was a lie. i think fred might flip out from looking at it. also, if you ask me to verbally acknowledge the DNR order, my brain makes my mouth say "NPR." i imagine that might cause some confusion. i'm a fundraiser for "all things considered," unto the end of my days.
i need money. my relatives in lincolnton are bilking my bio-mother for big bucks every week, and i want, sometimes, to add them to the extra-judicial execution list, but don't. i need money badly, but hell if i am going to wade through the ari genetic cesspool to take a sick old woman's money. she needs it more than i do... but the overarching principle is that it is HERS. they all assume that my stock-market-whiz of a father left me some imaginary fat sum. he left me nothing, which was the absolutely right thing to do.
i have wasted a life, and every day i remain alive is more waste of air, food, and internet space and time.
don't believe in angels, but decided i do have one. i loved him with every bit of my heart, soul, body, and mind, when i was between 19 and 24. my family never met him, and the friends i shared him with are scattered in true randomness. like my father, his name was bill. he was beautiful and joyous. i lost him my first year in grad school, told no one. burned his pictures. then asked his mom to send me one of him, healthy and happy, and she sent me the beautiful boy framed by sparkling blue waters and a pier. it was the summer, she said, and he kept up his snow-skiing skills by water skiing bare foot. tan, with drops of water on his face and chest, a wry smile, wet hair still obstinately curly.
i decided to just take my bill h. koptis as my angel, as i have so often dragged him into my sleep, a last measure against pain and being alone, his body a perfect fit to mine. singing in my ear.
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