The Haunting Texture of Skin

I can't use my right leg.

There is such pain in my right hipbone that I cannot explain it. I roll off the leg and I'm suddenly struggling with all of my might, but I can't get it to work. Well, as straight as it is, I can use the fucker like a stilt. I move myself into the right position and literally pole vault up onto my legs. Now that I was on my feet there was this tremendous hip pain, right down in my hipbone, like someone had a Makita drill, getting to work on it. Fuck!

I limp like an invalid over to my kitchen, which is no fucking trek and make coffee. Then I limp over to my desk and turn on my computer. I'm trying to give my leg something to do. The pain is still there, and it still doesn't work when I move it. So I do what I always do in the morning go back and forth making coffee and logging into my system. By degrees my leg gets together and starts to act like it's supposed to. No problem there. Soon even the pain dissipates, so I ask you, what the fuck was that about?

I get to writing, because there is one thing that I am, that I'll actually be when I'm 65- a writer. Maybe even a published author, but I'll be a writer that's for certain. And if I want to trade in the good life to be one, in fact, ANY life to be one, I would. So I write like a motherfucker until it's time to go to my therapist. You know, I'm sitting here fighting the urge to blow her off but they're about to drop me in the can for something as simple as my attendance. Meaning, I get my ass out of here.

She is talkative. More than normal. As if my life interests her. But that's how she is supposed to act, Hobobob. She is supposed to act interested in you and your life to win over your confidence so that you'll share more with her. Well, since she's my psychologist, I think I want to be as honest and truthful as possible because it would only hurt me to be otherwise. So I go through the mind surgery, telling her about everything that is going on in my life and the wacky, madcap adventures of Hobobob. She nods, she talks. And addition, she doesn't talk as much as my psychologist does. Dr. W. can talk your face in.

I do my long walk from 23rd st on the East side to 42nd street on the west side. When I was done I was one beat motherfucker. I could barely walk when I got on the subway, and I'll break your fool neck if you try to take a seat that I have an eye on. Simple as that. I'm tired. My hemmorhoid starts to talk to me in Chinese and I'm just waiting, just waiting, for the right leg to blow out. It never came.

I headed home and got to my mailbox, reaching in, as if planned by me, there is the RED letter from WECARE to show up at their shithole tomorrow morning at 9:00. How does that sound for you. I skipped one of their mandatory meetings and they send me a letter to return. I know what the real deal IS and therefore I was able to pull it off. You see, they have to tell HRA that they were trying to work with me and I was just being difficult, of which I plan to be. So they have to send you more than one letter. So it's the HOBO 1, WECARE 0.

I go upstairs and lock myself gratefully into my space pod.

It's time to get to writing.

Hobobob