I need a capo, a lemonade, a dollar fifty and a god damn prescription that works!
I'm having one of those super conflicting moods, where I just feel so physically fucked that...
Okay, you know the feeling you get when you're standing in line for a film, and the son keeps beating down on you? It's dusty, and you're with your mother, who's forcing you to see a movie that you don't want to see in the first place. You have no money, and know she's not going to buy you a drink when you get inside, so that just makes the itch in your throat all the worse. Adding on to your pain, each breath you inhale feels like a piece of glass rubbing against your throat, the little city bits of dust and perspiration that flow into the air and drag down to your lungs. The line isn't moving and you're wearing all black; your choice of color starts to bake you as you stand, panting heavily, making your condition even worse. Then, just as your about to get your ticket, the guy behind the counter tells you he doesn't like your face, and he punches through the booth glass and rips through your throat, sending shards and knuckles to massage the already thirst stricken flesh that didn't need anymore aggitation. As you sputter and cough, you stumble backwards and trip on the curb, falling into the street, back-first. A biker rides right over your neck. By this time, your mother has already gone in the movie, and the ticket guy is loading your body into the back of his car.
You wake up as you're being rolled down a dusty hill; the dirt is collecting in your partially coagulated air tube, and bits are flying off and getting lost to the earth. You pass out. When you wake up, your neck has become a breeding ground for disease and bacteria, and more than a few maggots have decided to call it home.
You know that feeling? Well, physically, that's pretty much how I feel. But I'm also in such a horrendously good mood, despite my huge amount of work resting on my shoulders (it's all bullshit anyway, so I"m treating it as such). Josh came by to visit, and we talked (okay, I can't really talk, he did most of it), and he brought me soup and lightened my mood. I got word from old friends today, and I know that I can neglect all responsibilities because I'm not going to work! Whoo!
If I wasn't sick, this would be a great day. I would be going to sleep with no worries at all. Unfortunately, the liklihood of me going to sleep at all in this condition is laughable. FUCK YOU, INFECTION! YOU AIN'T COOL!
Okay, you know the feeling you get when you're standing in line for a film, and the son keeps beating down on you? It's dusty, and you're with your mother, who's forcing you to see a movie that you don't want to see in the first place. You have no money, and know she's not going to buy you a drink when you get inside, so that just makes the itch in your throat all the worse. Adding on to your pain, each breath you inhale feels like a piece of glass rubbing against your throat, the little city bits of dust and perspiration that flow into the air and drag down to your lungs. The line isn't moving and you're wearing all black; your choice of color starts to bake you as you stand, panting heavily, making your condition even worse. Then, just as your about to get your ticket, the guy behind the counter tells you he doesn't like your face, and he punches through the booth glass and rips through your throat, sending shards and knuckles to massage the already thirst stricken flesh that didn't need anymore aggitation. As you sputter and cough, you stumble backwards and trip on the curb, falling into the street, back-first. A biker rides right over your neck. By this time, your mother has already gone in the movie, and the ticket guy is loading your body into the back of his car.
You wake up as you're being rolled down a dusty hill; the dirt is collecting in your partially coagulated air tube, and bits are flying off and getting lost to the earth. You pass out. When you wake up, your neck has become a breeding ground for disease and bacteria, and more than a few maggots have decided to call it home.
You know that feeling? Well, physically, that's pretty much how I feel. But I'm also in such a horrendously good mood, despite my huge amount of work resting on my shoulders (it's all bullshit anyway, so I"m treating it as such). Josh came by to visit, and we talked (okay, I can't really talk, he did most of it), and he brought me soup and lightened my mood. I got word from old friends today, and I know that I can neglect all responsibilities because I'm not going to work! Whoo!
If I wasn't sick, this would be a great day. I would be going to sleep with no worries at all. Unfortunately, the liklihood of me going to sleep at all in this condition is laughable. FUCK YOU, INFECTION! YOU AIN'T COOL!