Excerpt from the Independent News:
Been coughing and wheezing for five days. Deep down in my lungs I can hear the fizzing-gurgling of stuff that shouldn't be there. It seldom emerges, even after an hour of deliberate effort to tear it loose and spew it out. Because of the concurrent head cold which I am also enjoying, each rib-cracking cough of my chest cold makes my head feel like the homerun ball at the end of a slugger's bat. I am up to about 50 grand slams today; there must have been thousands yesterday. I start the day with a swig of cough syrup and 7 ibuprofen. Please write and tell me how foolish I am, how I should not even be allowed to have medicine if I am not going to follow the rules and make nice, how I deserve to be sick, to suffer and to die because I do what I feel like doing instead of feeling like I am told to feel, how commie, liberal, terrorist, pinkoe fags like me... Well, you get the picture. And really, don't get your panties all in a bunch; I have an appointment with the doctor in an hour. Maybe he'll give me some psych meds, too.
I thought that I was all better when I got up today. Tuesday night, my coughing and wheezing woke me from a sound sleep several times. ; Not so last night. I woke with nary a gurgle. Considered calling the doc's office and cancelling—too late for that, I decided. Then I began rehearsing how I would explain my lack of distress during the appointment which I so urgently requested yesterday. But soon the hack woke up too, and I was barking all over the house, and collapsing into a kind of combat crouch which I have developed for these episodes of sustained, explosive coughing. So, we're off to see the wizard...
And this (from days ago—I have to stop reading sites in reverse!) is so very sad. You made me cry. Again.
There are many trite things available to say; none of them help. Cry. Break stuff. Make the neighbors wonder if you're not unstable. Then laugh at the neighbors, and go buy better stuff.
Oh, and get drunk. (Was that trite? I'm sorry if it seems so, but I really mean it.). Margarita's or Martini's, vodka Martini's. Mmmm, I'd forgotten why I like tragedy so much.
These are the musings of a poetic heart breathing gently like a warm breeze on a balmy sun-filled afternoon. He makes me sigh; such a sparkling gift, so perfectly bestowed, and brief.
Ahhh, the lips. You can keep them, more truly than you can keep any pop lyric which will never be yours alone. You've kissed others, and so has he. But those were all different, completely different. Those others can't, and none in the future ever will, bring two together in one small moment, within one small space, sharing a single halting breath in any way even close to the way that you and he did it. A kiss is an intersection of emotion and moment and neither will ever be the same again, not for you or for him. Each kiss is as much yours now as it was in the instant you drew back from it.
...big strokes, thick scribble, bright colors only. Warm as your lips are.