Motherfucking Wine

Up.

I'm up. I'm up. It's nice in my room. I can't remember the last time I woke up and it was hot as Hell in my room. It's at a comfortable 85degrees. I'm loving it. Saturday. Not a bad one. I'm not stressed about the SHOUT OUT today. It's today...so what? I take my line of pills, fifteen, skipping the LUVOX which I only take at night. I go to the bathroom with a level of trepidation. I worry that there's a wack shit in there which will get Nacho to lose his fucking mind. I wonder what would happen if he did, would he come banging on my door, demanding for me to produce myself in the hall.

That means we'll probably have to go into the man-dance. I hate the man-dance. The music plays too low. Well, I find the bathroom pristine. I wonder if it's one of those fucking crows doing it? Shit, I don't care. It's just shit.

I get to the SHOUT OUT a little late, and the great thing about it was that the poets were in the bar area, drinking and bullshitting and having a great time. Made me want to stop and have a beer with them, they seemed to be having a jolly old time. This is when I love the SHOUT OUT when the poets are having a good time.

I get a chance to take a toke before the start of the show, so everything was weirded out. I was having a blast with a pint of beer in my hand. I carried the first half of the show, with OBSIDIAN coming and catching the second half. I'm going to miss him next week when he'll be out of town, leaving me to run the SHOUT OUT my myself.

I walk with him to STARBUCKS and we stay behind our computers until they close. I go home, to my room.

Sunday, I spend it in the room, standing around, online, reading. I'm feeling down again. It's a low day for me. I search for things to cheer me up. I think it's because tomorrow is my WEP assignment. But I'm not going in. I know that for a fact. I go out and get a bottle of wine, a huge bottle 1500ml. That's a bottle of muttafuckin' wine!

I drink it, and it must have rear ended the drugs in my system because it blacked me the fuck out. I wake up on my bed, drooling, face disfigured. The time is 3:00 in the morning. What the fuck? I roll over. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. I wake up at 7:00am. I'm thinking of going to Doctor A's office, but I feel ill. My head hurts. My body aches. I have pins and needles in my hands. I'm dizzy. Fuck, I can't keep anything on my stomach. There is a little less than half a bottle of wine left. I drink it down and instantly feel better. With this short reprieve I head out to the nearby Duane Reade and buy food. I've got to get out of such a lazy habit, and go down to the Gristedes to go food shopping, but the prices are not that much different versus the convenience.

I fill my cupboards full of food and sit on the edge of my bed. It's Monday. I hate Mondays. Tomorrow is Tuesday. Dr. D is not having his session. I'll have another day in the room, not moving, not breathing. Just growing stagnant. THIS my god is better than riding all the way downtown to sit in a noisy room of two dozen others and stare at each other. Churning air. Although on Wednesday I should go back and deal with it. It depends on how badly I want to drop my dick in the dirt. Ms Robot will not love me this week.

I'm just tired. That's all. Just a few days to recharge from them, then ramp up and deal with them until another vacation. I just need a break. I feel like I'm suffocating. I can't see to catch my breath no matter what I do, where I go. Could I have asthma?

I go outside again, the sun is setting. It's hazy, hot and humid. I really can't breathe now. I'm not going to panic though. I'm going back upstairs and turn on the fan on the A/C and sit in front of it. It works! I'm breathing again as if I'm on a respirator. It was probably a panic attack coming around the corner like a bat out of Hell, then derailed.

I need a job.

I need to deliver my own salvation.

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