A study in a recent entry written by me found that roughly two-thirds of all blogs top out at one introductory entry. The study went on to explain that a portion of these writers stopped because their dignity got the better of them, and that unsurprisingly, the greatest amount turned their backs because they were just too lazy. These two figures only account for 70% of the burning wrecks that litter the Information Super County Road, so we should assume that the remaining 30% is due to something alternately tragic and beautiful. Something like death.
It isn't anything of a secret that I've been stalked by death for most of the past seven years of the two year cycle in my twenty-three year long adventure. But my body, though Godlike in physique, was almost ruined by an insidious evil that knew no bounds. I managed to crawl home, but not before puking on the subway. The cheers of "Awesome, man!" not withstanding, it was the worst trip home in my life. Eventually I found myself nestled in the warmy embrace of my mother's breast, and I knew that health would be soon coming.
When I’m sick, there is no comfort like that found in curling up with the thirty-year old 7 by 10inch brownie pan my mother has insisted we vomit into. She meets our complaints of nausea, food-born illness and Hog influenza with “Well, let’s see how you feel in the morning. But for now, why don’t you go watch some TV and puke into this pan if you feel so moved.” I imagine the pan’s conscription happened after one of us, having just finished a fresh batch of chocolaty comfort, sat before the tray with with a face contorted in a fudge covered regret. Finally, a trembling maw would open to reveal tiny browned teeth, and with a cough, a poorly pressurized light brown jet of bile would come flowing from our throats before receding to a drip down the chin.
I spent the next two days seated in front of the television, amazed that in the ten years it has been on, the once hit program E.R saved the title “The Age of Innocence” for a recent episode. I don’t know what to make of that, but I think I respect the show’s titling team a little more.
For the hour or so that I wasn’t watching Must See T.V., I was curled up on the bathroom floor, thinking hard about which of my holes I might like to leak from next. By games end, my mouth won with a record breaking six barfs to my asshole’s no less impressive four lava pours. Eventually free of any toxins, my strength returned, and by the weekend I was back to solid foods.
With a tenuous though celebrated grasp upon marginally good health, I took to the night with a gallon of hobo beer, and a stomach full of hope. Had it been any other night, the food-to-booze ratio would have forced me to wander into the path of an oncoming car. In the moment before my princely frame would be torn apart, I would point an accusing finger at the determined Volvo, and growl “The thing about you is.. You know what your problem is?” But this wasn’t just any other night. On this night, the air was cold enough to shock even a nail-polish-remover drinking transient into a steady teetotaler. I hadn’t remembered being that cold in such a long time that at first, and this isn’t a joke, I mistook the intense shivering for some massive and devastating cardiovascular breakdown. I maintained my composure enough to keep from crying to some stranger about my dearly departed childhood pets, and good thing too. Had I taken the St. Ides Express to Fuzzy Memory Station, I would have missed the following interaction, presented to you without hyperbole:
Me: Did you say you were an astronomer?
Astronomer: Yeah.
The astronomer goes on to explain the complicated, though interesting work he does.Me: That’s interesting, but what does Sun mean?
(lol)Hippy: Stop being an asshole. So, did you say you look at images of distant galaxies?
Astronomer: Yes.
Hippy: Whoa. That must look real trippy.
My joy was short lived. For the next week, and a few days into the following, I would get out of bed around six in the morning to blow chunks into the early dawn. By Sunday it seemed less likely that I had the stomach flu, and more likely that I had the dreaded Worms Related Stomach Aids. A few trips to the lab revealed that I hadn’t contracted this, but the lab technician did warn me about my easily curable, though potentially deadly brain stem infection. If I weren’t a Christian Scientist I’d be first in line at the doctor’s office, but as it is, this could be my final entry. It was good knowing you.
