Time and I are Not Friends

I wake up at 7:30.

And don't know how the fuck I do that. I just fell asleep. I look up at the clock on the microwave, my vision blurry. I can't believe the time. I think to move, but the other eye strays to the window. It is fucking dark out. I have no money. I have four dollars to my name, and I somehow have to get the money for subway fare uptown to La Pregunta tomorrow evening. Now I have to walk across town in the twilight morning to get to the Metropolitan Hospital.

I don't have bus fare. Fuck this. I have to walk in the near dark through Central Park, not a straight path, through barren trees, flora and fauna. Up and down hills, through damp tunnels and over rough bridges, along winding paths, just to get across it. That's just asking for trouble. I can't be robbed because I have no money but I can be sodomized at gunpoint, and that probably won't go to well with me, causing my dinosaur brain to either fight or flight. Translation: A bullet in the stomach, chest, or in the back, depending on which direction I take.

Not a cheery thought for the morning. I'll have to think of something. But while I'm thinking of all this the clock ticks along to the next second, which when I blink my eyes, is 10:30. I drifted off into a stone cold sleep so quick that I wasn't even aware of it. I roll over, blink my eyes, fondle myself. Why? Because it's there. I sit up. I am tired. I did not get enough sleep last night. I put on some coffee, have a slice of cheese and sit in front of the computer. I send an email off to Charliqua Lovebiscuit, my social worker, if that's what you want to fucking call her. They have another multi-syllable name for her at WECARE. I send her an email telling her I just got up and missed the 8:30 appointment. I'll try again tomorrow. I could not sleep last night.

There are no emails to me, not even from OBSIDIAN. We are supposed to touch base before Tuesday to plan to go to La Pregunta together for the Feature. If he doesn't get in touch with me, I'm going on my own. It's supposed to be a pretty big event. I am not hyped about it, but rather cool as a fan. It's like a job. Go in, think of the mission, get it done, get out. Then associate with the poets. Something that I have to work on. Something that I hope having less ABILIFY in my system will correct. I want to be sociable. I want to hang around and make new friends, new connections.

The clock ticks on, I am no longer a part of time. It moves on without me. It marched to its own beat. It is no longer concerned with me, it never was. It never cared for me. It does nothing but make me older, deprives me of bodily functions like my kidneys, pancreas, dick, removes my teeth, bends my back, enfeebles my limbs. It doesn't give a fuck about me, it just wants to kill me. I say: 'go the fuck on ahead. Have at it. Do your best job bitch.'

I get dressed, bundle up and hit the bricks. Cross the street, head down the avenue to 62nd street, turn around and come back. It feels just like that. I own these new muscles now. They work effortlessly in gouging out 72 blocks right out of the air. This is what I want. I want to keep adding and adding and adding, every day, day after day, pounding this body into shape. Hammer against anvil, fire and flame, molten steel versus alloyed metal. Forging this fat shit body into something attractive for the spring.


The Hobo is back. The man that I was returneth. I come, I saw, I stayed. I look at myself in the mirror naked when I return. There is little change for a month of walking. Considering two hours of exercise daily is pretty good. It's better than nothing. It takes time for the body to shape and form. It doesn't take overnight to go from in shape to out of shape, neither does it take a month to do the same, unless you're on ABILIFY. That shit will put weight on you so fucking fast it will make your head spin on a top. Easy come, bend over and kiss the crack of your own ass, hard to go. I want to be in shape for the first time in a long while. I am not succumbing to the whims of a drug and it's loss of focus.

ABILIFY had it's good side, it stopped the people from coming around. I kept the blondes from appearing and asking for directions just before disappearing. Shit I wish they made a habit of appearing, fuck like pornstars, THEN ask for directions before disappearing. Those would be good delusions. Nothing beats fucking a delusion. But no, these bitches appear and disappear. I think there were because of my drinking. Runaway alcoholism or the effects thereof compounded by continued heavy drinking. NALTREXONE solved that. I drink heavily no longer. So what the FUCK do I need to still take ABILIFY for? My bi-polar medications were making me...fucking bi-polar.

Now I find that there were other things that happened to me while under the influence of ABILIFY, more insidious, more crafty. Shorting out my attention span, increasing my sensitivity, lengthening my focus, warping my perception. It was raising havoc with my mind. I held on desperately on who I was, and I guess it was this internal force of self-realization that kept me from flying apart, from running down the street naked, with my cock in my hand, showing it off to all the pretty women walking down Broadway.

When returning home, I go to Duane Reade. Something tells me that there is money in my account today, and damn straight, there is. $80.00!!! When you have no money, this is a kings fortune. I'm going to use $10.00 to by food, and the other to get my ass across town to the Metropolitan Hospital in the morning. No strolling through the park, looking to be knifed or shot. I love it when shit works out in my favor.

I am still tired after my walk, I jump into bed and close my eyes, drifting right off to sleep, vanishing from the face of the world, ceasing to exist for two hours. When I awake I get back behind the computer and read email and blog. There again is no one out there, no one sending emails, no one contacting me, other than DJ. So I shouldn't say no one now should I? I mean the number of emails has dropped for some reason. Probably people are celebrating the holidays still, unlike me, unlike the real Scrooge.

Tomorrow is the Metropolitan Hospital.

I wonder what that shit is going to be like?

Hobobob