The role of a young man, such as I, is not to self-actualize. Rather than take a moral survey it is much simpler, and easier when drunk, toss around terminology like "mas negroles" without pausing to consider what kind of person uses turns of tongue like "mas negroles". Well, after some aches and pain, I've come to the sort of self a
ctualizing young men usually resist like penicillin resistant strains of chlamydia.
Joel Walkowski is an eruption of blood waiting to happen.
Over the past ten days I've received 14 blood transfusions (4 shy of the California Record) and shattered little world views. In brief previews of the other side I assured myself that things were forever different...Maybe they are...maybe they aren't. The sun will rise tomorrow, I'll come up with it. I'll do the things I like to do but for the first time i'll have to consider the question of what I'm able to do without resorting into the brock
alterian hyperbole of superpowers and "y'know making a dough with soul".
Drinking? Gone.
Dipping? Gone.
Sword Swallowing? Gone.
I feel really great about all of this.
NEW OPINIONS GLEANED FRROM CALIFORNIA HOSPITAL
* This opinion was borrowed from Tom Wolfe and is dumbed down in a way not befitting the writer who foremost understands America: It's all about the vibrancy. No one wants to read about the nature of art. For the next 365 days I will be introducing a new feature to the Hindenburg. The pony of the day. In this feature I will describe a pony.
This pony, Tony, is artificial with a coat of flaxen-fur and haunched tired from imaginary journeys. Tony's never taken a step but rocked side to side, wobbled (both to and fro) and encumbered himself with the full weight of mental weariness, making him a VERY TIRED PONY.
Oh, Tony!
According to the filename, Tony is actually named Butterscotch, an undeniably insipid moniker.
*IV's are best inserted in the wrist.
*Sitting in a bed and watching TV all day is my own personal hell.
*Not eating for four days might be worse,
*Due to severe anemia, certain parts of my anatomy are unable to work at full precision. This does not frustrate. I've been thinking about airplanes instead.
*If someone tells you "I'm a dancer", you tend to believe them no matter how overweight they are.
*A mom rubbing your hair is the best feeling in the world.
*The other side is warm, secure, and tempting. At my worst I almost floated off but something kept me tethered here. I could see the world from the vantage of astral projection, 2-3 feet over my bed looking down at my bed. In this moment of unencumbered being I made sure the TV was off so I wouldn't be disturbed by the droning of Jerry Seinfeld. I felt a certain sense of getting in a good mood b/c of an instinct advising me that the way I felt at that moment would be the way I felt forever. I slipped into bliss and nearly crept off but was drawn back by certain visions that best remain private.
*They were stunning. Fuck.
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