Today the doctor pronounced me cured. Although the sty is still there, my overall ying and yang are now balanced. He did, however, recommend I don’t drink for one more month to allow my body to become strong. My friend’s birthday today was a champagne brunch. I love champagne; it has that beautiful combination of decadence and intoxication that sits so well on the soul. I watched as my friends became progressively more outrageous and sloppy, until the gays and the straights where all intertwined on a revolving rattan couch on the sundeck of Jumbo Seafood Restaurant in Aberdeen Harbour. Good for them. We all had fun and I don’t think anyone even noticed I’d had less than a mouthful of champagne.
My friend, by the way, announced he had been looking for a garbage can, and his man concurred, and it was agreed I must be psychic, and the Germans among us passed it around admiring the design, and enquired where one could buy such a piece.
My friend, by the way, announced he had been looking for a garbage can, and his man concurred, and it was agreed I must be psychic, and the Germans among us passed it around admiring the design, and enquired where one could buy such a piece.
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It’s now 3am. I wanted a drink when I started drawing and the Cure came on and I remembered November in 1993; and my whole body shuddered remembering that motel room in Hampton Bays, and that car, and the silent chill in the air and Wish on the stereo and the entire world falling away from under me, when everyone was still alive and the future was still the future.
I’m okay now.
I’m okay now.
1 comment:
Your willpower is impressive, to say the least.
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