Coming to Grips With Explosives

Okay, so I pussied out.

I woke up this morning again with the stabbing pain in my shoulder; But this time I could tell where it came from. It wasn't from my bag, it wasn't from lifting anything heavy. It appeared to me to be from the way that I slept. I have a flat pillow, you see, which is like having no pillow at all. When I sleep on my left shoulder, I literally crush it under my body, and henceforth the pain in the morning. Can you believe that? Something so simple?

I could not sleep at Five AM, so I listened to music and read: 'Significant Others: Creativity and Intimate Partnerships''. It's a good book I have to say. Soon, the overhead lights flickered on, signaling Six O'clock. I slide off the edge of my bed, and upon resting my feet on the floor, I felt the twinge of a familiar pain. The gout was indeed coming back. Probably with a vengeance.

I got ready early, after donning some of my new duds. A new tee, cardigan sweater, windbreaker. I feel cool, and in vogue. I throw up my bag and head out into the pre-dawn. It is overcast and grey, a heavy cloud cover overhead. Rain had fell heavily but it was gone now, leaving the streets shimmering and wet. The wind was snapping and cold, making me grateful for dressing in layers. The day held no surprises for me.

I made my way to Think Coffee, setting up my baby and getting down to the business of the day: emailing and blogging. I also kept one eye on the clock, promising myself to leave at 8:45 to get to the Box for the Morning Meeting and my meds. I'm seriously thinking about taking that damned COLCHICINE again today. I'm telling you, I'm deathly afraid of that stuff. It's not funny. But I'm even a lesser fan of pain.

Alright, I headed back to the Box, and got there five minutes late, missing Morning Meeting completely. Can you believe that shit? Ran through the rain, the cold, the wind, and miss an important meeting that lasts all but five minutes? Even less than five minutes since they begin at Nine and to be cleaning up at 9:05 means it had to be finished by 9:04.

Forget it, the real issue is the COL- CHICINE. I went upstairs and got my meds and then returned to my bed to straighten it out, checking to see if it was in 'compliance', because the fire inspector is coming today and everything needs to be orderly for inspection. I check and recheck, assuring myself that everything is indeed ready. But the reason for all this great care and attention is not that I give all that fuck about the inspection, but rather, that I was churning in my mind if I should take the fucking COLCHICINE or not. Yeah, it was just that big a goddamned deal. Shit, I said, let's get it over with, and I downed one of the little tablets, no bigger than a ball bearing. Can you believe that almost within thirty minutes, the time that it took me to get to the Way, take it uptown, and walk to Starbucks, the damned pain in my foot was gone? I'm telling you the truth, that fucking COLCHICINE is not fucking around with anybody.

I sit down in Starbucks and blog, staring out the window at the driving rain outside and the New Yorkers slogging through it. I'm taking my time retiring to the library. I feel that I have all the time in the world. If E.D. (Explosive diarrhea) occurs I'm less than a stone's throw away from a bathroom that's clean. But this separation does not last for long. I soon run through the rain to the library where I meet up with OBSIDIAN and Electra and set up my baby for a day at work. I set my mind on my article and find it in pretty good shape. The only thing missing are pictures of sea and waterscapes. That's not good, because that means that I'll have to take a day and head to the waterfront, which is not all that far from the shelter.

Yeah, I have all that to do. Like I have any real work.

Other than wait for E.D.

Hobobob