Dream of Spry Breasts

I am nearly doubled over in pain.

The COL- CHICINE is working the shit out of me, literally.

"Are you in a substance abuse program?" Yes, I say dutifully this morning to the CASAC worker interviewing me. I don't know what the fuck CASAC stands for, but she thinks it's mighty important. It probably means washwoman.

Oh, I'm getting ahead of myself again. I woke up at Five Thirty, a perfect time to exercise, make coffee, go online. In time I hit the showers. I'm hitting the bathroom alot today, well...because of the COLCHICINE and all. Normally it would keep me toilet bound, but I had no chance today. I had to do the WECare shit. I had to.

I hopped on the Way and headed downtown to 50th street and then fucking limped to the WE- DON'TGIVEAFUCK- Care offices and got there at 8:12. I didn't have my appointment letter because I couldn't find the fucker at the last minute. As usual, my fucking brain is working against me. It must be those damned head meds fucking with me. Making me forgetful. I know that I couldn't have thrown them out, but gone they were.

But that's alright for the intrepid girls at the WECare front desk. They print me out a new one and tell me to take a seat in the waiting area. My doctors don't get in until Nine. That's fucking grand. I sit down and wait as others are called, and when I'm just about to give up, my name is called. I head in, and follow this nice, elderly woman down a long hall. She introduces herself to me as Dr. OldLady and I say hello back. We retire to her office, where I sit down and she asks questions. "Do I want to harm myself or others?" Oh, on the times that I take my claw hammer to my head...does that count? "Do I hear voices?" Like now? "Do I see people?" Like now? "Can I do simple arithmetic?" I fail. "Does the television talk to me?" Yes, it tries to make me buy things.

We finish up and she slowly leads me back to the front of the building to cop a squat in the waiting room. No sooner do I hit the waiting room is my name called again. This time by my CASAC worker. I gimp over to her office...and let me tell you, these are no short walking trips when your foot is in pain, and these motherfucking offices are miles away from each other, really. We enter her small office, and I suddenly have compassion for her. An airless room, with no windows. Four white walls with a door busted into one. Hey! That sounds like my fucking SRO!! She sits before the only piece of furniture in the room, her desk and starts to type on her PC. It still sounds like my SRO!! "Are you in a drug or substance abuse program, Mr Hobobob?" Yeah. I tell her about Dr. L. "Do you have her phone number?" No, But I have the number to Dr. D, who can then give you the phone number to Dr. L. And this happens exactly like I foretold it, but Dr. L doesn't answer. She is busy.

"Well, I can't let you go until I verify that you are in com- pliance," the CASAC worker says to me. Wha? What's that supposed to mean? What if she's busy all day? I'm going to have to sit in a waiting room and wait until then? Oh no. We've got to do something here. Back to her computer, the CASAC worker returns with: "I can schedule you to return tomorrow in the morning." You people and your damned schedules. Alright SHEDULE me for tomorrow instead of calling me to tell me that everything checks out...oh wait. She can't call me to tell me that everything checks out. I don't have a phone! I take the appointment letter to return and leave happily.

My day is mine again. Whoopeee! I end up at the Madison Avenue Starbucks, doubled over in pain from the COLCHICINE. This shit hurts. No fucking around. My stomach cannot find a pause from churning. My brother comes and sets up his laptop across from mine and we get down to business. He's putting the finishing touches on an online anthology of the poets that have featured at the SHOUT OUT. Which is coming along nicely. I for my part nod like a dope fiend. I'm am exhausted. My eyes keep closing to the encroaching night. I find my head just inches, hovering over my keyboard, as I drop off to sleep.

When I do wake up, the ache in my stomach makes me want to go to bed. Miserable, miserable, miserable. Even the foot is not back to normal. It throbs with a dull ache and shit, damn if I try to walk too hard on it. But I make a pledge to myself tonight not to take anymore COLCHICINE. From this point on, I'm taking extra strength Tylenol. See how that works? At least I won't shit my mind loose.

Soon its time to leave for the evening and I gimp back home. The room is more forelorn tonight for some reason. For the first time, I feel really alone. But doesn't a million other New Yorkers when you think about it?? I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the microwave before giving up and going to the laptop, getting online. I don't stay long. I'm too tired. My peptic stomach too angry.

I turn off the light, crawl into bed, curl up and go to sleep.

Hobobob