Move over for a damage case

I've found something/That there's no use for.

Reveal thyself to me, O moral of the story, that I might emotionally invest in you. You fucker.

The video made an interesting diversion, and sitting in the 8th floor conference room—the long and oddly shaped one across from the physical therapy center—I had pause to reflect on the appalling mess I’ve become, at least on video.

Nevermind the change in my sister, who is twenty pounds lighter. Myself? That a slab of ham could have bags under its eyes, this comes as enough of a surprise, but to recognize at least in silhouette the body supporting it, my goodness…

It was good of Richard Harris to donate his hairstyle. And praise Jesus for Memory, which provides us the wherewithal to seed distant images of teenage curls with a stubborn tuft of fluffy worthlessness, like tufts of moss on a hillside, holding the mountain together. But eat me, Time. You fucker of a cliché.

It was fun to watch my brother’s wedding video, as only a month and a half ago I was ten pounds lighter.

Have you spent a month eating in the cafeteria of a half-assed medical facility, catching two hours of sleep now-and-then on the windowsill of the waiting room? In between visits from doctors, and the shuffling of other families, who had nothing more to deal with than those same doctors removing some significant area from the skull of a loved one? Were they expecting good news? Quit your snivelling, ugliness must sleep.

Just think, ten years from now you could be completely bald, fifty pounds heavier, with all of your loved ones dead or estranged.

For now, more Motorhead, and some Pierre Fernand Reserve. An audit next week in Connecticut, then the slow path to summer. But we are in the Rehab Hospital now—clostridium difficile and all, smelling like old shit with half our head shaved—glad you understand our progress! My good friends! I am miserable with happiness.

10:20PM
3.20.2005