Drifting

[Davey Rootbeer]

i knew, from the second i took a puff from the pink-and blue bowl, one last time, before the world closed in around me, that it was a bad idea. And yet, i did it anyway.


I haven't had a good laugh in weeks. It dulls the senses sometimes to be straightfaced. If i could prove that i was still able to laugh, to myself, then i'd know i wasn't just bullshitting.

<i> It was about 1:20 AM when it hit me. Usually, in bed, after the lights are out, and i've had my "dessert", i fall asleep as i hit the pillow. today was different. No...last night, was different. </i>

when i walked back to campus, we all giggled at the fact that there were paople watching my stick. It was a rather large, shapely, and fairly straight, as sticks that are three foot long tend to be. The bark came off rather easily, as the ground was still moist from the flooding which was...what? 3, 4 days ago? It hadn't rained since. In a faux accent reminiscent of that guy from the Simpsons, the outlaw guy with the odd accent, i pretended to pull everyone behind it, squeaking out a "Let's hide from the COPS", while everyone behind me giggled in hysteria.

She was just getting over it, the horrible zombie-like affliction that paralizes, infects, and makes you feel like you're floating on air. You can't breathe, you can't speak, you can't sleep.

Is love like a desease, or is desease like love?

I knew she had been sick all week, which was why i hadn't seen her. there were changes: her hair was shorter now, and a shade of ruddy orange, as opposed to the natural blonde.

My mother never told me to wipe the fucking bong before taking a hit. that's one of the 10,000 things i've never been told as a child, including "Don't giggle out loud when there's police around" "always smoke a clove to hide your scent", and "if you eat candy after the deed, it'll lose it's affect. the sugar cancels it out."

She got a candy bar from the Sub. I got a box of crackers.

There was wine waiting in the room for later, wine that was carefully hand-selected by myself from only the finest in the discount rack. I had used the nickels i made collecting beer cans to buy a 40 for myself, too. Magnum. I'd never been able to finish one of those, the taste reminds me too much of malta goya, which i detest. But, she likes them, so i obliged. it was only another $1.50 on my bill anyway, right?

The guy didn't even check my ID.

Has it been that my face has aged so much in so little time? or perhaps i had made the trip too often, and my face and identity was kept on file in his tiny head, behind his beady eyes. I don't want to know what the fuck goes on behind those eyes, though. That guy always creeps me out.

<i> 2:05. I know something's wrong, because i'm actually making noises in my sleep. the pain has reached a point where if i sleep on my stomach, it feels like vomit is speulunking down the back of my nasal cavities. Pete's still sleeping. or its he? I can never really tell. when i'm awake, and doing work, he usually just sits on the bed and stares at me, when i'm in the room. just a sad, sorrowful stare, like a puppy after it's told it's been bad. </i>

It was sunny and mild all day, after we had gone to starbucks. Two bucks for a fucking iced coffee is enough to make any man cautious, however, and i left before things got out of hand. My kideys flipped me off, and i entered the nearest washroom.

<i> 3:00 AM on the dot. I've been having this dream, on and off. It's about drawing some kind of comic, a stick fugure comic, for Jhonen Vasquez, and I've been commissioned to do such a thing. I can't, however, draw the comic itself, only see exactly what it looks like...my fcomic involves cruel and sadistic humor, shooting, explosions, death..and comical apparatices too. an elephant falling on someobody's head. I see it all out in front of my, and serrated off to my levels of conciousness: i am half-aware of my dream, yet half-thinking that i am actually making the stupid fucking comic right now. It's so frusturating, and coupled with the throat, it seems like an impossible mountain. </i>

It was like kissing her. Maybe that's why i did it, i wanted to be close to her. I couldn't tell her, of course. She has a boyfriend, I have a girlfriend. Nothing I can do about that. I don't fucking smoke.... but any time she offers me a puff on a clove to hide the scent, i oblige.

<i> 4:38. fucking nasal drip is starting to piss the crap out of me. i attempt to get up and go to the bathroom, but i have this sudden feeling in the back of my throat: the vomit wants out. I desperately search for a tissue in the blackness, and in dismay, use my pillowcase. it is not vomimit, but a mucus of jello-like consistancy. a blob about the size of my fucking hand, exploding out of my nose, as if i'd been excorsized. For the first time, i realize that my limbs are too weak to walk, and my hands are entirely numb. </i>

I got out of there and went back to campus. It was getting late, so i i took a banana out of the thing and ate it, and took several sips of the 40. She left at about 11:00 AM. Robot chicken was good. and my throat closed around me as i fell on the comforting green sea of pillows and blankets.


<i>6:20. I had set my alarm for 6:21 last night, after going to bed at about 12. In all, i had gotten no real sleep, just a daydream state that. I contemplated stating in bed, and missing my class, but remebered my goal: to get the hell out of here, as quickly and efficiently as possible. To move on with my life, not to fall back. To take control of my ailing body and do things beyond what i thought i could ever do. That was enough to lift me up. </i>

The air around me became thick as i got up and started shuffling, across the floor. My clothing heap was full; my drawers were empty. the only option was the blue-and-white bathing suit and t-shirt combo i had worn yesterday, when i looked like Al Bundy in that episode where they go on spring break. Maybe i AM al bundy. I'm trapped within myself, not being able to admit what i really feel, what i really think, and slowly dying on the outside. but this time, i'm rotting from the inside.


It was 6:29 when i left the building. the moaning into the cool air actually soothed my throat a bit. my bowels were a cascade of trouble, as i ambled slowly down the the lecture hall. I burped, took three steps, burped again, moaned, and repeated.

It took 9 minutes to walk about 1500 feet. I got there at 6:38, and the doors were locked as i pounded into them.

<i> 6:38? aren't the doors supposed to be upen by now? I had never been here at this time without the doors being open to the lecture centre. THere was no one there. A gust of wind caused me to shiver rapidly. </i>

I waited there in the cold for the next 7 minutes, leaning against the door. I could not feel the pain, except in my throat. It had already been taken care of. by the time i got in, my arms were completely numb, and i passed out across two chairs in the empty building.

It is now 8:00. I have just woken up several minutes ago, class is in about a half hour. My arms are numb, my legs are weak. my bowels cause me only enough pain to distract form the lightheadedness and nasal blockage. as I'm here, i'm not even sure if this is awake, or just another comic, like in my dream, which will dissapear when i wake up.

Life is a dream like that, once you think you've found something solid, it turns out to be fake. It's a desease, a virus, that keeps on coming back. And no matter what you do, you just can't resist another fucking drag. Maybe it's the risk that makes it all worth it.

Today, right now, i don't regret what happened. In my dream, i regretted not being able to do something i wanted to do because i was afraid. that's what seperates dreams from reality....



Happy 3,000 fucking posts.

[Dr. Badman]

:c

[implode]

response has been relocated to livejournal, as i realized that i don't want everyone posting here to laugh at me. just close friends.

[Invader Jenny]

I don't understand, but you still write good. *golf clap*

[Davey Rootbeer]

<i>Thinking makes my head hurt. Too much, or too little, both can do the job.

The last 24...36? 48? hours have been pretty much a blur, with a couple of things in particular standing out. </i>

I managed to remain solid enough to attend my first class. although i wasn't able to concentrate mostly, i had enough stamina to fake it. I did a wash of laundry in between, and tried to put my obvious fallacies to the back of my head, walking it up and down 5 flights of stairs without a rest. I knew i had taken on too much, though, when i had to sit down to fold it in the basement before i could bring it upstairs, about this time, my legs were becoming more and more weak. as i brought it up, and fell on my bed, the tower of clothes scattered around my sheets. wasted effort. I spent the next 10 minutes refolding and putting away everything.

<i>10:00 AM. I had planned on my throat and body having been healed by now, but things seemed to be on a downward slant. however, many hours later that i decided to look back upon this, i regreted it instantly. this was the last portion of the day where i felt good enough to walk. </i>

After napping on and off for the next 3 hours, I walked to the science building for my next class. I had only been able to nap for 10-15 minutes at a time, and never in the same position. I started feeling quite incredibly warm, and quite incredibly cold. My forehead burned. I entered the building in a daze, and the hour long class might as well have been an eternity for me. there was nothing i could do but return to my room, and go to bed. It was during this class that i realized i hadn't had anything to eat for the last 18 hours, and hadn't any fluids either. I sipped precariously at a vitamin water stored in my backpack during the lecture. I do not know how i obtained it.

<i> 3:15 PM. I walked back to my room, barely able to get my jacket and backpack in there before i collapsed on the bed. My kidneys kicked and bit at me, and, complying, i followed them to the bathroom. My wallet, jacket, backpack, and keycard, i had left in my room, so i left the door open a crack.

It was interesting at this point that i felt more disembodied than i had over the entire course of the day, and perhaps the most irrational, as well. i had conciously realized that leaving my keycard and wallet in my room was a bad idea, lest if the door were to shut in the locked position, i would be trapped, out of my room, and left for dead. I knew this, and yet, i drifted right along, drawn towards the bacthroom down the hall.

I returned from the bathroom to find my door shut and locked. some part of me knew that it was going to happen, that i would be in this situation, at this exact moment in time. So, why then, did i do it? Was it just recklessness? A call for attention?

the only thing i knew for certain was that my keys, my bed, my life was on the other side of that locked door, and that i was too weak to get it. Frustration mounted, as i pounded on the door. Pete is never in my room during the daytime. The only answer would be to wait until Pete came back, which would most certaintly be in several hours...

<i>

I could not stand anymore. I dropped to the floor, and curled up in the fetal position. It was freezing and burning, the hallway, the hard floor, the door which provided my only escape, to be locked. I could not hear myself or any others, as i closed my eyes. My breath became irregular as big, delirious tears streaked dowon my face, one by one, as i sobbed. I sobbed at the feeling, the lack of hope, the pain. I sobbed at the helplessness i felt, and the more i tried to think about my situation, the more my head started to hurt. My forehead blazed with sweat.

I was all alone.

[Davey Rootbeer]

As far back as I can remember, I've been a loner.

<i>I played silently by myself duing school and on the playground, i refused to work in groups with others, even to the cries of a pleading teacher. even into high school, i would come straight home from school every day, while everyone else "hung out", and i would do my own thing. My mother would encourage this behavior, and in fact, nurtured it all through my develoipment. that's not to say my own principles didn't have a play in it either: but when push came to shove, i developed a sense of fear and self-reliance...and estranged myself from other people.

I was sick often as a child. Every few weeks, i would come down with pneumonia, a flu, or some other repretory ailment. Those were the times i remeber most about being a child, laying down on the sofa and watching Television while my grandfather or mother stayed home and babysat me. I did not have to worry about anything, all i had to do was lift my tongue, drink the soup, and pull up the covers. </i>

as my head lay there, against the cold hard floor, i thought back to the last time i had been this ill.

<i>It was the first few days of "Spring" semester...over two years ago. It was january, and it was cold. Two weeks before my 19th birthday, I woke up at 6 AM with severe stomach cramps. Hunched over, i grabbed my coat and trod across campus to my morning class, hoping my condition would heal once i was alert and awake.

I was doubled over during the entire class.

After the class, i had walked, across campus, about a mile, to the health center, and as soon as i walked in, the doctors called an ambulance for me. Not a moment too soon....

The hospital stay that night was shallow and embarrasing to me. the paper-thin cover top, the surrendering of my wallet, watch, and clothing, and the incessant pokes and prods of unconcerned medical staff...I had never been that vulnerable and helpless in my life, i felt. and, there too, amongst a sea of faces, unfamilar to me and echoing voices that seemed to come from nowhere and dissipate into nothingness, I, too, was alone. </i>


My breathing became softer and softer still, my eyelids draggged themselves down my face, and my arms and legs became stiff and numb. I could not feel the hardness of the floor anymore.

I thought about my Grandfather.

<i>Late October 2001, I had come home from my high school football game to hear that he had been rushed to the hospital with a mysterious ailment. It was unexpected by everyone but him, since he had, of course, felt symptoms, but never told anybody about them. The doctors were unsure about what the ailment was, and had to run through many, many tests. As I went to the hospital, the stench of death loomed in the air, hovering above like a vulture on its vulnerable victims.

I had on black leather gloves with the fingers cut off, biker-type gloves that I had brought at a yard sale for about 2 dollars. My face was clean-shaven, my hair was short, and I had a faint moustache coming in around the top of my lips. I had a varsity-letter jacket, in red and white, with an S patch sewn in the front-right side, the letter that I had earned from football. It was a beautiful jacket.

He looked unlike I had ever seen him. I had never seen him in pain before in my life, and it was complete shock. It felt like I had walked into the wrong room. I wished it was the wrong room, and that I could go back out, find the right one, with him sitting up in bed, hunched over, with that grin on his face and the sparkle in his eye.

He groaned in pain. I found out that they still had not located the source of the problem: they said it was something that it may not be just one thing, but a whole infection of his systems: an endemic he might have been carrying around for days, weeks, months before that...and was triggered by a kindling.

A spark. That’s all it takes to set a man ablaze when he's doused himself in gasoline.

He was wearing a paper-thin hospital-regulation nightgown with no back, on a bedpan and writhing, squirm in desperation to soothe himself...

He never spoke a word to me that night. Perhaps it was because he did not know I was there, the painkillers had made him unaware of his surroundings, trapped in a nightmare of torture...

I visited twice after that, each time being given the same story by the nursing staff, each time his groaning worse, and each time, never hearing him say anything, except when my mother was in the room. He told her to leave, continuously.

Smaller than I’ve ever seen him before, prone, frail, and disgraced, a baby forced to sit and behave, and unable to speak clearly. There was fear in his face, frustration, sorrow, and anger. Anger at himself for not being able to do anything. And humiliation, for having become a useless appendage, a worthless part. It was mostly out of humiliation that he made these demands to my mother, who pleaded and complained to him that she would to everything to be there and stay with him.

The last time I saw him was right before game 5 of the World Series.

The TV was on in the hospital bar, and Mussina was pitching. When I went to his bedside, he was very still, silent, and wincing. The occasional moan reached my ears.

I looked at his face. Really, looked at it, for the first time since his hospital stay. It was empty. Just a deadpan expression between winces. The sparkle that lit up both his eyes...it was gone. He didn't even look like a person: more like a mannequin being manipulated by strings.

My mother always said i was a lot like my grandfather. That night, when I was in the hospital myself, I had done the same thing. I had reluctantly accepted help, because i was afraid.

What's the difference between boldness and stupidity? There's a fine line. But the feeling that you can take care of your own self, without any help from no one, is the best feeling in the world.

Until it all crashes down. </i>

The pain in my head dissapeared, as well as all feeling in my body and throat. my sobs faded into the floor, the only sensation i felt were the hot tears running down the side of my face, pooling into the carpet.

[Davey Rootbeer]

I was jolted awake.

A voice stabbed at me, rang through my head, and it all came flooding back: the numbness went away, and pain returned. My head ached like a motherfucker.

It was my RA.
<i>
Taiwo was not my first RA, and not the nicest, but definately had been the most helpful in my short stay in Bouton.

Previously, when living in other suites, the lockout policy had been thus: If you locked yourself out of your room, you had to copy a 2-page form (handwritten) which was blatantly enlongated and went on a tangent about Residence Life Policies. Problem was, it didn't help anyone out who had accidently locked themselves out. I'd always been very careful with my card, but last semester, i accidently locked myself out once, to leave for an 8:00 class. I had arranged a meeting with an RA in that building, at their convenience, and was polite as fuck. only thing that got me was a sore wrist.

But Taiwo was different. I had locked myself out once before this semester, (in which i had left for a class at nearly 6 AM, and in my sleepiness, forgotten my wallet), and he took care of it. No muss, no fuss, no forms.

So it was only fair that he was able to bail me out of this most critical of situations.

Bouton was the oldest of the residence halls in my school. there is no elevator, and the shower facilities are miniscule. If you have actually read this thread, pm me with a comment and any number, and i'll give the first three a free avatar resize. The windows are held up with masking tape and putty, and the walls of my own room havew hundreds of holes ranging from tiny to gigantic...I have to put up posters to actually hide them. </i>

My conciousness returned to me as i noticed the tear splotches all over my arms, and floor.

"What happened?"

"...I went up to go to the bathroom, and..got locked out....*

The words came out of nowhere.

"are you okay?"

"I..I Think i'm really sick..."

"Do you need an ambulance or to go to the health center?"

"It's too far...I just need to get rest, i'll be better...."

He took out the master keycard and opened the door for me. unable to even stand up on my own, i pulled myself up along the door frame. My head was pounding.

"thanks..i owe you one..."

He was gone, as i looked up.

I crawled over to my bed and collapsed. I glanced at the clock. 3:27.

The whole thing, all the flashbacks and memories, and recollection, from me walking into bouton, getting up to go to the bathroom, collapsing on the floor, to me getting in the door and crawling up to my bed, had taken a mere 12 minutes to transpire.


It had been the longest 12 minutes of my life.

I feared what would happen were it to be longer.

Trying not to think of that, i put my blankets and sheets around me, not bother to get undressed, and tried to sleep.

[tater]

yes, i read the whole thing. that was amazing. i bow to you, sir, and you're skill.

[Davey Rootbeer]

I tossed and turned for hours, consumed with the pain.

I could not sleep for more than 15 minutes at a time, as any position i twisted myself into was ten times more uncomfortable than the last.

My mind was blank. There was nothing to dream about.

<i> The only recurring dream i had during that time was an odd version of chinese checkers, but the bright red dots were carried by young children, which were able to "go to the other side" using their dot, or "kill" using their dot. but they could not use the same dot twice, and no one child could hold more than one dot. Trying to work out the logic of this puzzle frusturated me immensely. and made my head pain increase. I tried to think of something else, but nothing came to mind. Nothing at all.

I had experienced a total dearth of stimulation in the last 24 hours. My dreams are usually based on taking the previous day's events and reworking and reordring them to create "new" things, and having not experienced anything new, and not being able to go back past the last day or so, i was unable to dream. the prospect of sleep grew dimmer as i sweated into my sheets.

</i>

I was unable to get up and walk around due to the weakness, but laying in bed wide awake was not very pleasant either. I checked the clock once again. It was nearly 6:30...I decided i'd skip my last class of the day.

<i> Ever since my freshman year, i made a pact with myself to avoid skipping classes at any cost. Through high school, i routinely did not bother to show up, not being challanged by any of the work there, or pay attention. as a result, i was unable to have the grades i should have been able to get. It was anot a matter of me being able to do the work, it was a matter of me not feeling like doing the work, and thus, when exams and test came and went, as they did so often in high school, based on the work, i was knocked down a few pegs.

I followed the same trend my first semester of college as well, and saw that it got me a 1.5 GPA and nearly expelled for probation. It was then, over that long and soggy winter break, that i decided to put all my focus into paying attention to my classes. The illness i had in early second semester of my freshman year was a huge turning point. It was the rock-bottom of my college life, sitting on a hospital bed with a 1.5 GPA, not knowing whether i would live or die. Things improved from there on, and i started getting GPA's in the high 3's: i attended classes every session, even if sick, kept notes, talked to the professors, and swallowed my pride to ask for help when the need arose. </i>

It was at about 8:30, or 9:00 PM when i decided to get up and check my computer. There was no way i would be able to sleep, and i needed some kind of nourishment. The last food i had consumed was on sunday night....about 24 hours before.

[Linzoy]

I like this a lot. I have the same problems, getting sick all the time and never paying attention in school and stuff. Like right now, I'm supposed to be painting an absract self portrait or something in art class but I'm wasting time on the internet.

[Dr. Badman]

Dont worry, Linzoy.

I got'chou covered...

[Davey Rootbeer]

I had taken two nyquills and had undressed for bed when i realized i had left my away message up for the last two days. There was an invite to a kleinchat, so, in spite of the impending drowsiness i expected to experience, i accepted. I was completely unable to keep up in conversation, and every moment i stayed behind my monitor, my ears and cheeks grew hotter.

The drowsiness never set in.

Later, i learned that i had accidently taken one nyqill, and one dayquill.

<i> Since i moved out of the house and went to college, i rarely, if ever, resorted to taking over-the-counter medication to treat an illness. My mother was the regulator: i was afraid that i would accidently take too much, or take too little, and it would not work. I had no safety net to fall back on. I simultaniously cherished and was scared to death of this.

The only notable exception came following dodgeball games. I would walk to the gym every thursday at 8:30, and limp back to my room at 11:30. There was no pain during the walk home, as the adrenaline was flowing swiftly through my body, flooding my nerves with a sense of excitement and pleasure unlike any feeling in the world. All the sports, all the pushing my body past its physical boundaries...i did it all for the adrenaline. It's addictive.

I had classes the next day, sometimes. and the adrenalin has a tendacy to wear off overnight, leaving the next morning one of incredible stiffness and muscle injury. sometimes it wears off before sleep, too. I would take a couple of ibuprofrin after the games as a buffer to keep my body from crashing into a physical wreck every night. It wouldn't prevent it, it would merely gentle my descent. and let me get some much-needed sleep. </i>

I quit the computer sometime soon after i realized that it was impossible for me to converse normally, and that my headache was growing as i stared at the screen.

I lay down, undressed, turned out the lights, and fluffed my pillows, expecting an instant sleep, an escape from the day.


<i> It was as if i woke up every 15 minutes that night, into morning, starting at around 10:00 PM. I simply could not fall asleep: my sweating made the bed into a pool of dank water, if i were to lift the covers, the chill would freeze me. my body was a device that could simply not be pleased. </i>


Around 1 AM, i grappled randomly for a tissue to blow my nose, and perhaps clear out the blocked nasal passage of my right nostril. as i blew, the sensation of an airplane climbing 7,000 feet in altitude in 5 seconds passed through my ear canal. the pressure was intense, and it was not to be let out. the pain was as if there were tiny needles in the canal, stabbing at my eardrum. and then i heard the ringing.

<i>Tinnitus. A sound in one ear or both ears, such as buzzing, ringing, or whistling, occurring without an external stimulus and usually caused by a specific condition, such as an ear infection, the use of certain drugs, a blocked auditory tube or canal, or a head injury.

I had undergone a Meatoplasty in 1988. It was a year later that i had recieved my first hearing aids, baffled at how quickly the sounds around me had dissapeared in such a short period of time. I found this out on my own. My parents never told me. I was occasionally plagued with tinnitus, occuring maybe once or twice a month, but rarely noticable. In this case, it was. </i>

The shreiking of a test pattern screen flatlined in my head, over and over, a straight line of sound that seemed to have no beginning or end. I curled into a ball under the sheets, putting my arms around my head, trying, willing to do ANYTHING to stop the noise. I opened my eyes and hurredly tried to focus on something else. I could think of nothing, nothing except that horrible tone, and thus, it continued. sweating profusely, i sat up in bed. i stared at the blinking green lights of the modem. It calmed me down, gave me a chance to focus on something else. The noise died.

I felt something hot on my chest while i was sitting up. i turned on the lamp next to my bed slowly, cautiously....

Red blotches on my stomach. Crimson tears on my forest green sheets.

<i> Back in high school, i used to have nosebleeds all winter long. the air was so dry, and i was allerngic to so many things, i was a walking, sneezing timebomb. I lost more blood through my nose by the age of 15 than most people do in their lives. 10th grade, i went to get my left nostril cauterized to prevent future nosebleeds. A burning hot instrument was placed in my nose to seal the capillaries. It was a success, and i was supposed to come back a month later to get the right one done. that never happened.

At college, my nosebleeds have decreased greatly in number somehow, due to much better allergy medications, and better environmental conditions. It is rarely that i get them anymore. </i>

I blew from my right side, and splotches of dried blood flecked themselves on the napkin. the left side was still flowing. for the first time in 5 years, i was bleeding from the left side of my nose. the cauterization had been broken.

I hugged my nostrils together and held them until the bleeding stopped.


The clock read 1:35.


It was going to be a long night.

[Davey Rootbeer]

The night seemed to stretch on to foreverness. again, i sweated, soaking the sheets around me, and shivered in the coldness of the fan i had turned on to cool down my skin. I had ran out of vitamin water halfway through the night, and come daylight, my head had still not found a good rest on a pillow.

at about 9 AM, i quit trying to sleep.

I zombied through the entire day. My spanish professor offered to let me rerturn to my dorm when i attended her class at 330, but i declined.

<i> Stubborness is inherent in my family. My grandfather would have done the same thing. That was only part of it though. the other part was that i wasn't confident enough in myself to catch up on the work if i did miss a class, or even try. I am afraid of myself. Afraid of what i might do, afraid of what i might think...I try to protect myself...from myself. and i set up these strict boundaries for those reasons. It seems to be one of two things: either a grandoise gesture, a measure of pride...or it seems like a desperate cry for attention, a reverse psychology of sorts. a guilt trip.

In me, the truth is, it's a bit of both of those, but it is mostly the fear that i will become overconfident in myself, take everything for granted, and laze around all day and never accomplish ANYTHING. That is the plight, too often, of those who have ADHD. the mountain looks so damned easy to climb, until you see it up close, then you just want to go home. the only way to climb it is to not look at the whole thing, but focus on the little accomplishments. One step at a time. </i>

The rest of the class groaned at me out of spite.

My next class started a half hour after that one ended...which basically meant that, in my condition, i'd have to spend 5 hours in a row in the classrooms. The only way i could, the only way that i would, accomplish this, was a little bit at a time.

<i>It grew tedious. i started to see grey blotches form around the classroom, like a film projector dissolving a movie. i just shook my head and blinked them away. My forehead was steaming. The only thing that truly stood out in that class, was, strangely enough, a discussion where the professor talked about how the proteins in the brain break down after the internal temperature reaches 105 degrees farenheit. I was scared that i was near that point. My body had not been near a thermomitor all week; i had no idea what to measure with. i supped on an overpriced bottle of water throughout class in hopes that it would still my fever and keep my brain from overheating. </i>

Tara walked me back from class. I had just met her a few days beforehand, but she had been in my class since the beginning of the semester. I just never had talked to her...or anyone else in the class, for that matter.

<i>It was that one night that her, justin, eve, and myself went to cabs, that i really got to know her....when was that? thursday? it seems so long ago....</i>

She had to get into bouton, and i was the keeper of the Keycard. the keycard of power, of fortune, of destiny. as i had already experienced over these short few days, the keycard was life. and this time, i had it in my hand.


I limped back up the stairs toward my hall and decided to do something about my lack of nutrition. My temples were pulsating so hard, i felt as if my brain would collapse from the pressure.

<i> Some people get stomach-aches when they are hungry. I get headaches. Always have. </i>

I scrounged the cooler for the banana i had placed there a few days ago. No good, it was mushy and bruised all over. Not the best food for someone on the verge of nauseousness. I remeber something heather had said to me on the way to my room. "cheerios. it's corn, it's good for you." I opened a box of cinnomon toast crunch as my only cereal alternative, and munched. My tongue orgasmed, melting over the first food i had actually tasted in at least two days. It was not good enough, my head still ached, and the cereal hurt my throat. I found a bowl of sweet-and-sour chicken rice in the cooler, and heated/devoured it in one massive effort. about halfway through my stomach rebelled against me, but i willed the acidity back down, and forced myself to finish the rice bowl.

<i> It was simply this: If i do not eat food, my head will hurt more, and i will die. Nothing more, nothing less. logic at its purist. </i>

I prepared for bed, putting a box of fresh tissues by the side of my mattress, a cool beverage on my night table, and a bag in a safe place in case i had a sneezing/bleeding fit again and needed to use it to store used tissues.

As i took two nyquil (i am sure they were both nyquil this time), I thought about what it all meant. Way back when, in the beginning, if i had known that all this would be caused by sharing that bong, all the pain i had been through, just to lie to myself and take it as a token of romanticism...

and i still didn't regret it. I'd do it all again.

I closed my eyes, conforted by that thought, and drifted off to sleep at nearly 10 PM.

[KLEIN]

It's official. Davey is the new cory.

Implode, you're fired.

[Takker]

wow...intense

[implode]

It's official. Davey is the new cory.

Implode, you're fired. pshaw. fire me when i actually go to school for it and give a damn. that's just like firing the homeless guy who begs in front of your store.

[KLEIN]

He's fired too.


570,000th post.

[Davey Rootbeer]

<i> My dreams that night dissapeared from me, for the most part. Usually I don't remeber my dreams, unless i've woken up in the middle of them, or were able to write part of them down upon completion.

actually, when you think about it, all dreams are interrupted...the dream process itself is one long movie, with no real beginning, and no real end. it just kind of fades into itself and becomes its own reality for us, stays around a while, and then blinks off at the flip of the light switch or the screetch of the alarm.

THe end of the last dream i had that night was quite odd. I was with two nameless, faceless people, it was the backyard of my grandpa's house and it was night. we had reached a concensious that were we to destroy the giant tree that grew in the back of the yard, a secret would be revealed. my two friends threw a giant pinball up into the tree, and it flitted arounf the branches, creating a high score along the top of the dusk. when 100 was reached, there was a sound, the sound that is made in Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of TIme when you reveal a secret entrance/doorway. But there was nothing. I blinked, and there was a door, we opened it, and fell deep into the tree, landing on the ground of a cave, piling up flat on eachother, from a 3rd person perspective.

<b>sometimes in my dreams, i participate...other times, i'm merely the observer, the cameraperson. </b>

the cave opened out to a ledge which lead to the top of a mini golf course. i looked down, and could see apartments, including a room from my father's father's apartment, only slightly more modern. my father's father was there also.


<b> My father's father....Poppy, i called him. a recurring character in many of my dreams. he passed away when i was but ten years old. i knew him well as a child, butr the interests he had, i did not develop until i had reached adulthood: bowling, golfing, etc...he always had a cigar handy. he was also very prominent in the magazine publishing business.

I always regret never having formed a real bond with him while he was alive...in all my dreams that i have, he is alive. </b>

as we climbed toward the moon and stars, a kind, gentle female voice came out across some kind of PA, informing that the place would be closing soon.

the next part of my dream takes place in a parking lot in front of a slanted building. there are two cars, both red. the car on the right is buried partuly by snow, and would take several hours to get out. some of my other friends were digging out the car on the right. the car on the left was free to go, but no one was using it.

I chose the car on the right. </i>


I woke up feeling much better than i had in the last few days. my head was not hurting, thanks to the food i had ate the previous night. my body, though a bit sore, was responsive and nearly agile. my ears did not betray me. i was not overtired, as i had actually been able to sleep for at least 6 hours the previous night. my crowded nasal passages had cleared up enough for me to be able to smell for the first time in days. My fever had calmed, and i was no longer sweating or felt like i was freezing.

The only thing that actually seems to have happened for the worse was a rather nasty cough had developed out of nowhere. it was a horrible sound, a deep, phlemy cough that erupted from my lungs and hacked away at my throat, attempting to dig up the buried treasure at the bottom of my lungs. Green-yellow gold. it made me sound sicker than i actually was in the two days beforehand.


It was a beautiful spring day outside as i left for class. The cherry blossoms were starting to turn white and bud, and the golden mountains on the horizon stood vigil over the greens of fields and forest in their bed. Campus was green, all around. Green and blue. pastel and light, fresh and breezy. as if a sickness had been swept off and cleansed.

<i>6:40 AM. the doors were locked, again. It was not as cold out, so i waited outside to actually see what time they would physically unlock them. my question was answered five minutes later when a young man with braids came by and undid the locks.

"going to use the computer lab, ya?"

"Yeah...i just need to print something out.."

I walked in, and headed towards the lab, waiting by the door, which he then immediately opened for me. he smiled at me, i smiled back at him.

</i>

class that morning went absolutely smoothly, save for the 7 dollars i spent on various iced teas. The cafe that opened at 7:30 AM (and refused me service until 7:31 AM) did not cary vitamin water, so my main source of vitality now came freom various lipton iced tea products. They were 16 ounces, 4 less than the vitamin waters, and far more pricey. But being $200 over my spending limit due to overcompensation and many days of ordering out, i could foot the bill. I found that the Green Tea one worked best for my throat.

i walked at a lesurely pace back to my dorm room.


When i got there, i felt a pang of hunger, something i had not experienced in the last three days. the need to consume that rice bowl was not driven by hunger, but the need to survive and the knowledge that i had to eat to make up for the nutriants i had lose over the course of my illness. But this was hunger. and it was a beautiful thing.

I reached out for the box of cinnamon toast crunch i had opened yesterday, and promply knocled it awkwardly backwards, on the floor, under my bed.

<i> what does clumsiness come from? in an illness, it could just be displacement of inner-ear fluid, causing loss of balance and inablility to walk straight. I know this; i faked it in fifth grade to get out of class. It worked for a week. a distraction, obviously, could cause a stumble or a trip. but focusing too much on something can also cause it, overthinking and hyperdeveloping it.

If you really want to think about it, to do something as easy as grab a cereal box is so very much complex.

when i was learning BASIC, we had an excersise: we had to write down, step by step, how to get a cup of orange juice. (before we started even programming, mind you: this was in plain english.) some people came up with 3 steps: Take out orange juice: pour into cup, drink. some people came up with 5 or 6. The instructor had over 100 steps.

-place weight forward -extend legs -push down on floor -shift balance to left leg -raise right leg to floor at angle of 45 degrees -lean forward -shift weight to right leg -place right leg on ground.

that's 8 steps....for taking ONE step. We learned, right off the bat, that in BASIC programming, there are so many miniscule commands that need to be specified, (and they ALL need to be specified), that on any one command, something can go wrong, and it will cause the whole program to crash.


That's what i think causes clumsiness. We're all BASIC programs. running millions and millions of commands we do each day, there's bound to be a syntax error in there somewhere. But unlike a terminal, we don't end the program when we trip: we get back up and resume from where we left off.

Humans are amazing machines....</i>

[Linzoy]

Dont worry, Linzoy.

I got'chou covered...Wow, thanks. The teacher says I get an F for f-fort but I don't think he spelled that right. Also he just isn't smart enough to see all the hidden abstract symbolism which is obviously all over the painting.

[Davey Rootbeer]

I bent down to reached for the fallen cereal box, straining my leg and back muscles. No good. It was beyond my grasp. Using my bed as leverage, i dropped slowly to my knees and reached out, pulling the wayward box closer to me.

every effort i made was met with a grunt and a moan.

<i> early in my teenage years, i'd never had that kind of thing happen to me. I could drop something, pop down to the floor, swipe it, and put it back in place without a sound. These days though, i hear myself groan when i get out of a chair, when i bend over, when i reach for something that is far away, or when i get out of bed in the morning. I stretch myself every now and then; if i don't, my muscles get sore and tired.

I would play little league and slide into bases, crash into people, do pushups and jumping jacks all damn day. maybe it was all the sugar in my diet..maybe it was because i was in a better shape then than i am now....

maybe it's because i'm old.

no. fuck that. I'm 21. how is that old?

I consume just as much sugar. all it does now is give me a rush for 5 seconds, then i pass out on the chair, too damned tired to lift a controller to play a video game.

I used to be able to do curl-ups. i could do 70 in a minute; i held the elementry-school record for my school for a year and a half. then i tried to do 100 in a row during that summer i went to florida to visit my father's mother, after she took me to a "workout" class with instructor Richard Simmons (on tape). fucked up my stomach for the whole week i was there.

last time i did more than 50 at a time was my frieshman year of college for a study. my waist hurt so much afterward, i couldn't walk upright.

i don't even know if i can do 40 anymore, let alone 70 in a minute.

and to be able to walk away from that with no pain whatsoever!
</i>

I clutched the box to my chest, and slowly crawled backwards, landing on the tender spots of my knees and wincing, shifting to find a more comfortable spot to lean against as i prepared for my ascent.

<i> I can understand my knee problems. I have a catcher's knees. with all that running around and crashing i would do as a kid, i wore out pants faster than Rivera can blow a save against the sox. Every day, i would come home from school with dirt and grass stains on the knees of my pants, and have to strip to my underwear upon getting in the house, and put on nice new pants...which i'd promptly ruin while playing outside on the swingset. forget about shorts..when i had the unfortunateness to be wearing those, my knees would be covered in blood and scabs come twilight.

In high school, i actually had to wear kneepads for two years because i kept landing on the hardwood floor and damaging them even more during volleyball, tennis, and other indoor sports.

I'm not old. Some parts of my body are, more than others.

</i>
I coughed loudly for a few minutes, clearing the dust out of my lungs and throat. I slowly climbed the green mountain that was my bed, and placed the cereal box on my cooler.

I stared long at hard at the fat cook on the box.

<i> At this age, it wasn't like i could just do anything i wanted. I simply couldn't, i wasn't able to anymore. I couldn't eat candy all day because it was bad for me. Heck, i couldn't eat chicken parm heroes all day, either. I had to start eating stuff like vegetables, and fruits, and other stuff that was actually supposed to be good for my body.

I think i stopped buying food for how it tasted, and instead by how good it was for me, a few weeks after my 19th birthday. That last illness--the one that landed me in the hospital--had made me realize that i needed to change something. I couldn't live my life the way i lived it before college.

I'm a different person now. Physically, and mentally.

</i>


I decided to forego the cereal and have a few slices of bread instead. It was delicious.

My professor inquired as to my health during my 2:00 class. He hadn't noticed my much more weakned state two days ago, but with the loudness of the coughing, it was pretty hard not to notice. I made attempts to cover my face every time, and gave the keyboard a thorough wiping once i was finished with the class, which let out at 3:00 instead of the usual 4:00.

It was a beautiful spring day indeed, as i walked back to my dorm room to prepare for my last class of the day.

[poonchy's bro]

Damn, you should pursue a career in writing. I'm sure that would pay the bills.

[Davey Rootbeer]

Inside my room, It was dark and messy. i kicked back, took off my shoes, and flipped around the tv for a while, before i decided to leave for class.

It was the first time i had realy noticed the weather changes. It had been about two weeks ago, almost, when the floods started. a couple days later, they let up. a 500 mile area, stretching south from sullivan county and reaching into mid-jersey, was devistated. even ulster county met the ravages of the floodwaters. route 32 was underwater. over 100 homes were destroyed by the floods, and countless others had been damaged. I was in long island then, so i really didn't care.

<i> long islanders have the most complete unconcern about the dangers associated with weather, i think, anywhere. It's a matter of overconfidence, really.

"Nor'easter? sure, biring it on! Hurricane? I'll whip it with one hand tied behind m'back! Typhoon? Fuck you, i know how to swim! Ain't gonna stop me from gettin' my bagelandcoffeeandpaper!"

It must come from the 30-40 years of breathing radiation and toxic fumes, drinking polluted groundwater and having cell-phone and radio signals take up every square inch of airspace. Until i was 8, and went on a trip out to pennsylvania with my parents, I thought they sky was ALWAYS supposed to be orangy at night, and drinking water was supposed to be cloudy. </i>

The waters had receded, though, and for the next week and a half (save for one chilly, rainy evening shower) was entirely filled with sunny skies, temperatures that ranged from mid-50's to low 70's, and a gentle-to-sometimes-annoying breeze. Figures it would happen right after spring break ends and the papers start piling up.

That particular day, however, that early wednesday afternoon, right around 3:00, the 13th of april, year 2005 CE, was perfect. the scattered stratus snowballs gently wrapped around the cyan ceiling, the sun bright enough to illuminate everything presicely, but yet, was not overbearing or angry. around the campus, the greens ranged in shade from a mid-olive in the wilds beyond the Old Main, to the lime sweetgrass that ran across the fields, and the mint clovefields out back by the old tripping grounds. The whole campus was radiating, and the students as if they all shared one collective conciousness, decided to all go out and enjoy it.

The earth was still rather cool and slightly damp, as the floods had really done a number here. but by a week's time, the puddles had all dried up, asorbed into the rich depths of the black soil. It was firm, but not enough to fool the feet into thinking that the ground was paved.

the trees were starting to blossom, the apples and cherries' white and pink forming a bouquet as multicolored flora spring up and complemented the many shades. The sweet smell of newness, growth, and pheromones consumed every inch of breathing space.

in some parts, it mixed in with the meaty and salty. there was a barbeque somewhere in the distance, dogs and burgers cooking on a random hibachi, while those who were "tending" the grill tossed around a frisbee, or a football.

Random whiffleball games, hackey-sack, and softball started to spring up on the great fields like weeds, lived a few hours, then dissapated, the players eventually drifing off to go to classes or join in a conversation.

THe whole campus, the whole world was buzzing with life.

Towels around the greens of the banks of the lake. eager sunbathers picking out the best spots to lure the toaster over in the sky to brown slightly.

I walked past the great fields with my backpack on both shoulders, standing tall and clear, with only a slight cough as my crutch. On my way to the last class of the day. the time was 6:20.

<i> It's almost over....it'll only be tomorrow. maybe two days? That's it. then i'll be free from this. I can see the finish line.... </i>

Then, I saw her on the park bench as i approached the fields.

[Davey Rootbeer]

if anyone's interested in how this ends (yeah, it DOES actually end), let me know, and i'll finish it tomorrow. otherwise....it'll just continue to drift.

[KLEIN]

Take it at your pace.

[Davey Rootbeer]

She was sitting on the park bench, facing the great fields, with her books piled up at her feet and notes stretched across the wooden bench planks.

I cautiously approached, wondering when she'd notice my presence. her hair blazed in the light of the sinking sun, the light drizzling down her shoulders and back, making them softer and warmer.

she saw me and put down the book.

"hey!"

An empathatic cry of recognition eminated from undernieth the bonnet of burnt sienna.

"heyy..just on my way to a class..."

My shoulders stifferend under the weight of my backpack. i shifted my weight to take some of the burn off.

i looked into her eyes, trying to figure how to say, how to ask, the thing that has been on my mind the last few days.

<i> what did you have, that made me so sick? how long was it supposed to last, when would all this horrible throat pain be gone? do you ever notice how i seem to stare into your eyes when i'm talking to you? do you know what i really think, how i really feel? if you did, what would you do? would you ever feel the same way?

the questions flitted across my mind like dragonflies at a warm cesspool. my tongue remained numb, and i lost all ability to orate for a few seconds, thinking only, what would each scenario play out when i asked her each particular question...

of course, it would destroy my relationship with my girlfriend. and that, by proxy, would destroy the relationshops of friendships i've shared with everyone else in our little social group, a bunch of friends accumulated through 3 years of school together, all whom know eachother. rumors spread fast around small groups, which is why i've always slightly distanced myself from coversation with others.

there would be no telling the damage that could be done if i broke through that barrier i had put up.

i would lose everything...at the slight, near-impossible chace that she does feel the same way i do, she has a boyfriend too. and it would still damage our friend circle, and destroy everything around me.

take the risk, and lose it all...

isn't that what i'd been doing all along?

no, it was only that first day. the rest of the time, i wasn't doing anything but living my life....but when i thought about it, that first day, i've never regreted it, and should the situation come up, i WOULD do it again.

so maybe i have been doing it all along...</i>

I stared deep into her eyes and opened my lips, not sure what exactly was going to come out.

[Davey Rootbeer]

I stared blankly at the blinking light in the darkness.

1:45 AM.

I knew pete was still up, too, and still staring at me, in the dark. I saw it, out of the corner of my eye. the same deadpan, expressionless look, head tilted slightly forward and eyes fixated on nothing in particular. the face was blank, but the eyes were sad, mournful, sorrowful eyes, begging to say something in a mute voice, struggling to speak out and enunciate all the mysteriousness beneith them.

Windows on a prison ship, just drifting randomly at sea, with no voice of its own.

Everything that made him up, his worries, his hopes, his dreams, his thoughts...

banging at the blue glass panels, never able to escape.


Pete is, in one word, awkward. he is a very awkward human being. the way he walks, ever-so unsure of himself, as if in a perpetual daze. flinching when his awkwardness caused something to fall or knocked something down. tall, gangly, thin, and awkward.

His voice is the opposite of that. not deep, but not high, and loud. in a monotone. a drone, really, never really being raised or lowered when talking.

Pete talks a lot. To anyone who is willing to listen, and even those who aren't. immune to body language, he can rant on and on, for hours on end, about two things. Chemistry and politics.

He never talks about anything else. Just chemistry, and just politics. roping innocent bystanders into hour-long conversations by the drinking fountain was routine. everyone on campus knew him, and called him "crazy pete" behind his back.

He was the first friend i ever had on campus.

<i>
It was freshman year, and the dining hall tables were crowded, I had fried chicken and a pulled pork sandwich, and found an empty table. just about to start my meal, when he asks "do you mind if i sit here?" in that monotone. Being friendly, i obliged, and he started talking, without ending, about how he lost his car keys, which somehow led into a conversation about dick cheney, and as i was leaving, hydrocloric acid.

We bumped into eachother later that week, and he invited me to go to a frat party with him that weekend.

We made a routine of it. every friday night, for the next three years, we would go to the Kappa Sig house, get plastered, and walk back to campus, and on saturday, we'd go to the TKE house and do the same thing.

it was through him i met all my friends that i have currently. even though, they they ended up being creeped out by him ultimately and to the point of not inviting him to hang out (when they extended that invitation to me, of course).

This is the first semester i've roomed with him.

</i>

He continued to stare.

I didn't really care.


There was one thing on my mind, and one thing only.

The thing that had happened, just over 7 hours ago.



I had been going back and reviewing it in my mind for the last 3 hours. just rewinding it like an old vhs, pausing it at that critical moment, and watching it slowly, to see if anything had changed. If it was somehow different, if i had just imagined the previous scenarios.

<b>

It was the same thing each time. The same round of poker, each time.

I had opened my mouth first.

"what did you have sunday, anyway?"

<i>The ante. </i>

"I think i got sick offa you!"

<i>opening bet. </i>

"huh? oh, i wasn't sick."

<i>a raise, this early in the game? was it a bluff?</i>

"really? you said you were coming offa something.."

<i>Calling the bluff. raising the stakes again. </i>

"oh, no, i think that was because i found out i was lactose intollerant."

<i>...wha? she's calling this round? </i>

"well, i mean, i had a fever, and it was like the flu, and it happened like, right after we smoked, and...i still have this cough.."

<i>...I put all in. showed my cards. </i>

"I didn't have a fever...you couldn't have gotten it from me."

<i>and She showed hers.

Game over.

i lose. </i>


I rewound it again in my head and watched from the beginning, in utter disbelief.

<i> of course, if this were true..which it couldn't possibly be, then i had been lying to myself all along. the whole time, i kept myself going through this, because i thought it was from her. i had comforted myself in knowing it was all worth it. Told myself that the reason i had been sick was because i had, knowlingly, done the thing that would get me sick. I knew when i took that last hit that if i got sick, it was from HER germs.

and now it was something completely different. there was no point. </i>

I had left the park bench in a daze.

"thanks for stopping by to visit!"

she waved cheerfully as her voice cut through the numbness of my legs.

I giggled stupidly and turned around, in a half laugh-half wave.. I didn't even think about anything going on in my next class. I just had a burning desire to get this sickness out of me. to be free, to get over it, to stop caring. I was a walking coma on the way back.
</b>

I looked back at it all over and over, with a twinge of anger at myself. anger that i had lied to myself. anger that things weren't really what i saw. angry at letting this sick charade go on.

I regreted it all. everything, from the start.

across the room, Pete turned over and went to bed.



It would be a long time before i would be able to fall asleep.






(end of story. reflections coming up.)

[Linzoy]

That was very good. I was really anticipating the ending, and it didn't leave me with a sense of incompleteness like I thought it would. It's based on real life and true stories don’t usually wrap themselves up at the end well unless someone dies or something. But I like the way you ended this even though everything is still the same. I think it's because you didn't build the story around events as much as going through emotions or something.

In me, the truth is, it's a bit of both of those, but it is mostly the fear that i will become overconfident in myself, take everything for granted, and laze around all day and never accomplish ANYTHING. That is the plight, too often, of those who have ADHD. the mountain looks so damned easy to climb, until you see it up close, then you just want to go home. the only way to climb it is to not look at the whole thing, but focus on the little accomplishments. One step at a time.I like that paragraph a lot... I like how you keep talking about mountains, "the green mountain of my bed" and stuff.

I've met people like pete. I think he has an extreme form of aspersers.

[Davey Rootbeer]

PROLOGUE




It's been 6 days since that wednesday when the lie i had been living dissapated before my eyes.

I just came back from the doctor. couple tests later, and she gives me two inhalers. Says i got bronchitis. doesn't even write down the part about the flu-like symptoms.


Haven't been able to shake this damn cough off just yet. Pesky little fucker.

It just hangs around, dissapearing for a couple of hours every now and then, and at the most inoppertune times, showing up, making my throat sore and even more irritated. when i'm about to go to bed, it appears at its worst. I turn out the lights, roll over, and cough so damn hard, i choke on my own spit.

<i> Last night, i tried to go to bed at midnight. Didn't work. every half hour or so, i would get up, eyes watery and throat sore, turn on the light, and sit in an upright position until the coughs died down.

as soon as i lay back down, they'd come back. </i>

the doc says the cough's gonna stay with me for some time. lingering, not quite as severe, but ever present. the albatross, the monkey on my back.

Just like the little fantasy i had built up for myself, which crumbled down. I can't run from it, the memories will always be there. how i felt at that presice moment when i didn't regret anything....and then at that moment when i did.

Perception is reality. What you percieve to be true, becomes the truth for you. Until facts prove it otherwise, and then it all becomes a jenga game, and all the pieces fall to the floor.


Isn't hindsight pervfectly clear, though? All this time, i've been writing, while i've been going through this, and at those times, what i was saying WAS the truth. Now, later, there's a different truth. does that mean everything in the past was a lie?

nah...

At that time.....those other things were the truth, for me. Truth is a liquid thing....ever changing, depending on who looks at it.


<i>“What seems to be true is not nesscisarily the case when we look at it and we dissect it and we take it apart, and we turn it around and we look at it from a different perspective…Whose truth are we talking about, your truth, or my truth?”----John Scanlon, 1991. </i>

all things considered, right now, my truth is that if i had to do it all again....I wouldn't. I'll shake this monkey off my back yet, though. You just wait and see.

That's the truth.


THE END