You know how it's 99% disgusting to throw-up? It stinks, burns, splashes everywhere, makes your eyes water, and cramps up your stomach muscles. BUT, there is the 1%. That far corner of your mind that you don't want to admit is there in the middle of your five alarm fire of hot mess. It is the part that is enjoying the vomiting process. Hopefully, my blog is that 1% .

Friday, July 15, 2011


I’m in a perpetual state of panic. Here’s what happens. Every morning I wake up and take stock. Okay, I don’t think I’m dead. I count the bed shakes to measure my pulse. Find my appendages numb and tingly from a long night of being prone, it must be MS or ALS. I’m now imagining a growing tumor in my pituitary gland. I look over at Her, She rolls away and I unscrew the Klonopin bottle just as deftly as I unscrewed her last night.

On this morning 2.0 MG is gonna do just fine. I sit up and immediately fall back down. Vertigo. Again. Wonderful. Better make it 2.5 MGs. I know it sounds weird but panicking doesn’t even make me panic anymore and this is making me concerned. Is there a finite amount of adrenaline the body can produce (when I was 13, I used to hope there wasn’t a finite amount of sperm swimming around the nut pond)? If so, I must have hit the wall. I’m already an hour late for work but I’m not going anywhere until my head stops spinning. I check the droid. Fuck, eight missed calls, 65 emails (60 spam), four text messages. I press on my Twitter icon but put the phone down because I can only read it when it’s exactly 12.5 inches away from my face and I can’t manage to get the distance right. I turn on the TV and can hear the cast from The View kvetching about weight loss struggles. I keep my left eye shut to focus, catch my reflection in the mirror and thank god I never got that tattoo on my shoulder (what would have started out as a ripped hockey player taking a slap shot by now would be a hairy fat fuck spilling out all over me).

Instinctively I reach down to adjust myself and I can’t feel my johnson. I pull up the sheets, look in my Hanes and I see what appears to be a dead fish-well, minnow. Klonopin side effect? I hope. I pull the head and tug it out but it slowly goes back into its repose like a 90 year old spent Stretch Armstrong.

I look back at Her to see Her eyes darting beneath their lids and feel happy and resentful. I reach for Her right tittie and squeeze gently. Look down, nothing. Great, now I’m sure I have dick cancer. Against my better judgment I get to my feet and into the bathroom. I empty my bladder but don’t feel a thing. My stream is weak and sporadic but as a benefit, it’s going in 8 directions at once. I get in the shower and immediately shart. At least I’m in the right place. The pipes squeeze and spring, finally relenting a brown unsteady offering of cold sharp water. No shampoo, no conditioner just a razor thin slither of Irish Spring.

I get it wet and sniff it imagining I’m a stocky Irishman on a prairie with my choice of sheep. The soap slips loose and after spending 3 minutes trying to grab it, I give up only to see shooting stars as I lift my head too fast. I towel off thinking I need a shower and see Her sitting up pulling her ear plugs out. She points to my thighs and appears to be mutely screaming. This confuses me so I look down to notice a yellow stream running down my leg. I guess I’m peeing again. That’s when I realize my hearing is gone. I get dressed (knock off Dockers, and unlogo’d golf shirt), grab a banana and get in the hybrid. I’m looking for a very large cliff to plunge from and this goddamn city doesn’t offer anything but gentle rolling hills. I step on the gas and head right into an oncoming garbage truck. Just before my head hits the windshield I wake up with a start. Jen looks over at me sympathetically and I tell her I dreamed I was John Banks again.

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