Back from the dead

It’s now Wednesday, and I’m finally feeling like myself again. Near-tragic events early Saturday morning have opened my eyes to a long-standing disease perched atop my shoulder, but along with realization came biological vulnerability. At the point that my body finally gave in to all the abuse, accelerated one evening through a series of missteps, I must have opened myself up to viruses. Between the uncontrollable shakes, head nausea and mental sprints through alleys of my past, my body lay broken and susceptible to evils. And so this flu-like strain has kept me in bed ever since.

I’ve never slept so much and watched so many shitty movies. My room smells like six-day-old ham left on the kitchen counter, mildew has built up in the corners, and I can still sense traces of dank sweat breathing between the bed sheets. My burgundy Stussy hoodie is still wet. It’s like the Velveteen fucking Rabbit in this room, and it all needs to be burned.

Today, Wednesday, finally, I’m back to my usual 70 percent. It feels good, though it seems like the past few days never happened. No music, no news, no anything. Marginal sports, mostly baseball with the sound turned off as I stare at the wall and put all of my senses on the eight-inch strip of my thigh that Lola is pressed up against. I’ve done more dreaming than living, and that’s pretty terrifying given my state of mind. But I sense a future of health, and really hope this was some sort of turning point.

Come tomorrow: the return of my irrelevant pop culture notes and manic hockey observations (Though I’ve only watched one Devils game this season... Gentlemen, don’t ever bring a lady into the world you love – when she leaves, she’ll only take it with her). Until then, I’m going back to bed, and getting rest. Lola’s already got soup on the stove.