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Friday September Third
I am
dizzy
from
exhaustion.
My feet feel heated
and bruised, my ankle's
tender all the way to the
heal. My muscles quake
randomly. I'm afraid to
rub my own shoulders.
The tension
is what's holding in
the liquid waste
that's been
rocketshitting
out my ass
all week.
I've lost -- wait, I'll go check --
One Eighty Five.
I have lost somewhere between
ten and fifteen pounds since
Monday afternoon at
four o'clock ... checks time ...
Wow. Almost exactly ...
wait ... four times twenty four ...
ninety-six hours
since I last had a
human bowel movement.
Mine have been
straight out of
movie special effects.
The disease had me.
I had no chance. I tried
to ignore it. I gritted my
teeth and ... there was
nothing I could do.
When a kid is sick
in your house ... well,
you can only stay away
so much before
you start feeling like
a real dick. Then
it's just a game of
intestinal roulette.
"Am I going to get it
or not?"
I wonder if my system
wanted to be purged,
and that is why this thing
has hit me so hard.
Maybe I needed a good
jolt; needed to win
a battle.
So far I'm
holding my own.
I haven't permanently
stained anything.