Why the fuck do I itch so badly after a shower?
What is that about? I feel like I'm about to go mad! I grab a harsh hairbrush and scrub my skin from head to toe, feet, armpits, thighs, even balls. Damn, your balls?! My balls! Can you see taking a harsh brush to the sensitive skin of your prick and balls? That's how crazy the itching is making me. I have to take a painkiller to make it stop, and then, only then, it's a prayer game. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. Today it works.
Shit, Paula is back outside my door, talking with her creep friends. They have to stand out on opposite ends of the corridor from each other so that they have to shout through the hallway. Shout. Really now? You have to shout? I ignore them, because to give them credit would mean that I would slowly simmer and then kill them all with my bare hands. Oh yeah.
Today, I'm going downstairs to meet up with DJ and together we walk through the warm day to Central Park to sit before a green scum covered lake. It was nice to hang out and talk with an old friend. DJ is soon leaving to go on vacation, so we are taking time to just crack up over silly things. I relax because as you know, them damn parks charge up my fucking self-defense mechanisms. Moving people, especially behind my field of vision, must be accounted for, lest they sneak up behind me. I am on full alert, ready for the inevitable. The inevitable? A vicious, life threatening attack of course.
Why do the millions of New Yorkers want to attack me? Fuck if I know! But I don't fucking want to find out also. I take about as much of this as I can of just sitting there and ask DJ if we can have a change of venue and hit a bar for a few beers. We get up and I gratefully leave the park and head to a bar on Amsterdam and catch seats at the window, which was great! I have people on my left, crammed around a bar, and a floor to ceiling, opened window of the rest of the city on my right. If push came to shove, I can always leap out of the window and high tail it down the block. Yeah, that's what I think sometimes when I'm in a cramped space with many people.
Except... except for when I'm with HER. When I'm with HER I can think of no one or anything else. I can face a fucking firing squad when I'm with HER. Shit, I'm serious. I'm fucking invincible. Look out, the MAN will wipe you out of existence, as long as he can keep his eyes on HER. But without her, I'm always at peril. I have to survive to see HER again. I have to keep alive, so I keep vigilant, keep alert. This is Vietnam, this is Iraq, and I want to get home to HER. Keep your head on your shoulders, Hobobob. Fuck up and lose it all. Really.
I say goodnight to DJ after another walk and diner food. Then I bag two beers and go upstairs. I can only drink one. I fridge the other. Damn NALTREXONE. Beer begins to taste like piss and I CAN'T GET HIGH! Why the hell would you drink piss and NOT get high? What the fuck is that about? I drink the beer too slow, and it gets warm so I pour the rest out. Well at least I have another in the fridge for who knows when.
I've been walking for two hours every day. Shit, my body is taking a pounding and I'm sore in muscles that I thought only other people had. I'm aching down to my feet. This is my second week of full five days, one month of weeks of spotty days. If that makes any sense to you. Basically my regime is getting worse and worse, and harder and harder. Self-inflicted suffering that is. I want to push myself to build up the physique that I once had. I'm tired of being shaped like the Hobobob of the streets, and want to return to who I was before all this. Before homelessness, before Social Services, before the head drugs and the madness. I want to be me again.
It starts at the body and discipline. Discipline. That is what I'm pushing for. Habitua- tion. But I hurt so much now even when I roll over on my chest while sleeping my nipples cry out in pain. My nipples! Shit, balls and nipples. How much else can you hurt man? Huh? Balls and nipples are supposed to be sucked on, right? Treated with care, right? What the fuck?
And the heat. New York is hot as Hell. I expect to see Satan and his minions trying to get out of the fucking subway, pushing commuters aside. Fuck this shit, he's crying. I need some fucking air!! I smile, I march on through the streets, passing the faceless millions, strutting and feeling the muscles all over my body come alive. I used to do this shit every fucking day. I had to walk from point A to point B on a daily basis, with a twenty five pound pack on my back to get a meal three times a day from the soup kitchens all over the city. Here for breakfast, there for lunch and finally out there for dinner. It was a constant march. Day in day out.
I was in much better shape also. I felt better even though I slept on concrete or hard benches, my body felt bulletproof. I could take a fierce beating by killers and survive it because my skin and bones were so hard, flesh like leather, bones like Louisville Sluggers, balls like brass bells. I was tough and mean. Now I'm soft and rubbery. A doughnut, or marshmallow. Fuck me.
I am also slower than I used to be. I used to stop and get shit done. I could blog every day, on time, like clockwork. Now, it's a hit or miss thing. Primarily because I have so much paperwork to do with Social Services and WECARE and other bullshit, such as this Fair Hearing that I have coming up on the 26th of this month. Yeah, I just got my court date in the mail, so I have to show up and deal with more accusations of things that I didn't do. I've gone to two, NOT ONE, but TWO stupid pre-trial meetings, and now here comes the Judge. Thank god almighty, cus here cums de judge!
Fuck it. Damn it all baby. Damn it all. Things could be worse. I could wake up with heartfelt testicular pain. Oh, wait! I have heartfelt testicular pain! What the fuck was I thinking? So, to make my world better, I need to chop vegetables. The only sure thing in life for me. Standing for hours, hacking away at lettuce, onions, peppers, cucumbers, tomatoes and the so forth, slicing and dicing them into confetti. This takes my mind off of my world, my tiny existence and opens up my thinking. I am here, at peace in this nether-world of concentration. My OCD kicking in and feeling good. Ahhh....
I go into my sink, remove and clean various dishes, and get to my favorite chopping knife, my butcher knife down on the bottom of the pile of dishes and lift it to wash it clean with a sponge and there, against it glittering left side, about the size of a penny is a rust stain. It leaps out at me, screaming RUST!!! Shit. I rub at it with the sponge and it fades a little but goes nowhere. It's a rust stain and it's there to stay. Mother....fucker! Isn't life a bitch? Now, my need to chop vegetables is hindered because I don't want to catch fucking lockjaw or tetanus by chopping vegetables with a rusty knife. How in the Hell is that happening? What kind of fucking luck is that?
Then I think about it, staring down at the knife in my hand. It's only the size of a penny, how much rust can it deliver to the food that I am cutting up? Really now? How much can even rub off when chopping if rubbing with a sponge will not remove any? Not much, huh? So, I settle in my mind to go ahead and use the knife. I mean, it's such a small rust stain. So, I turn the blade over to the right side and there, like a dance of defeat are SEVERAL penny sized rust stains running the entire length of the knife. I look at it and my heart sinks.
What is this? Indiana Jones going after the temple idol? He sees just a few spiders on his back and knocks them off with his whip. Then he tells his companion to turn around so that he can do the same for him, but his back is literally covered with spiders. Awww shit. Is this how it's going to be in the final days of Hobobob? Please tell me it wont.
I give up and toss the knife aside, and a use a lowly steak knife to cut up my vegetables, which, although is quite effective, just does not have the knifing power of a butcher knife. I feel that the vegetables are getting off easy today. Now my thoughts are busy on my rusty knife. How to clean it? Brillo pads generally work on things like this, so the first chance that I can get, I'm going out and picking up a box of that shit. Then I'm going to scrub the Hell out of that knife and I hope to be chopping away as soon as possible.
Until then, I think I'm going to take it easy. I stretch out across my bed, the muscles of my body ache, my balls throb, my feet hurt, my skin prickles with itching, my back is killing me...shit. Why don't my ass just die. What else could go wrong in my life, huh? There is a knock on my door, soft. I frown. It comes again. If I didn't care about it, it would have gone away after the first one. This is a phantom knock, I know it is. I close my eyes, and go to sleep.Hobobob
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