\”All men are created with equal time. Father time has got to be the richest make believe individual that never lived. A man who knows what to do with his time is a man, I guess, that is up in the front of the line. In the course of the day a man can make three phone calls and make three thousand dollars. Another man can curl up his bicep for three hours and he can puff up his arm three inches and another man can stand on a corner chasing down cars for three hours and end up with three spoons credit with Keko. Me, I spend days on end trying to come up with a three minute poem that\’s going to mean something to somebody. And I have never been satisfied. Maybe I should try scrubbing up Bernice.\” — Perry Farrell, Letters To Xiola
I woke up having an asthma attack this morning. Still half asleep, straining to breathe, panicking, I reached over for Aaron and then panicked even more when he was not there. Why was he not there? Here I was, sick, waking up with an attack, straining to breathe in the bed we shared almost every night for so many months two years ago. Same sheets. Same sick feeling that I lived with nearly every night for four months.
I managed to clear my eyes enough to see where I was, and if I could have breathed I would have taken a sigh of relief to see that I was not in Pittsburgh, that Aaron was not downstairs or at his computer or heaven forbid, out having another fucking cigarette, and I was here, in my little nest, mostly safe, and where in christ was my inhalor?
Twenty minutes, four puffs and a bit more even breathing later, I pulled the blankets over my head and wondered where the hell my Klonopin was. I have not woken up with an asthma attack in years and it scared the bejesus out of me. I guess it is stress, combined with going to the Marx Cafe last night, which was, of course, full of smoke, and I still have a sinus infection.
Whatever it was, I never found my Klonopin. I think it threw it away; I hate that shit, hate it with a passion, and I think I asked Aaron to toss it out while I was suicidal because I did not trust myself not to take it. I do not recall having seen it around since then. Just as well.
My lungs are still sort of rattling and my nerves are still jittery. I feel like a live wire in the eye of a storm, except nothing is going on around me that is storm like, at least that I know of. Dead calm. All I want to do is scream, but I am afraid that would spark another asthma attack. I do not feel like agent relaxed at the moment; my moniker has been momentarily shed. I hope she comes back. I was rather enjoying playing adult.
I do not know if I am censoring myself or if I am just afraid to take the cork out. A little from column A, a little from column B, I think. At any rate, I have to either snap out of this or bury it, and soon; Kristoff and I are supposed to hang out later today. That will either make things either ten times worse or ten times better. Guess I am a gambler after all.
