Alright, joke’s over. I’ve had about enough of this as I can take. I’m gonna raise hell with somebody.
Who’s in charge around here?
It’s bad enough I’m walking around (or, more accurately, lying around) 24 hours a day with the deepest nausea I could ever have imagined. I can take the hole in my belly into which a plastic hose has been inserted. My overall weakness? Yeah, it’s bad but I can handle it. As for the neck sunburn, all I have to do is not scratch it. So far so good.
The sore throat from candida makes it really difficult for me to swallow but I’ve come up with some tricks and quick fixes to get around that for a few minutes at a time. I’ve even found ways to relieve the profound constipation that transformed the contents of my bowels into granite. Don’t ask.
But this morning, in the shower, I howled. The Loved One dashed into my bagno, fearful I’d ripped open some vital part of my body, or had torn a strip of skin off. No, it was worse — far worse.
After scrubbing my ruggedly handsome mug, I had a sensation that my hands were covered with gauze. I glanced down and was mortified to discover that they were filled with much of my beard!
Yep. I’m now losing clumps of my signature facial foliage. Do you blame me for screaming?
What’s next? I won’t be able to wear sunglasses? I’ll lose my ear hoop?
How will anyone know who I am? It’s as though I’m seventeen again, not even having the sensibility to know who I might be or even will become.
Will people think I’m Leo Cook? Spyridon Stratigos? Even more terrifying, will I be mistaken for Tall Steve Volan?
Imagine the chaos!
How will the Big Mike character, the guy I’ve spent nearly 60 years nurturing and perfecting, survive?
Oh, this is madness.
To make it all worse, there really is no one I can complain to. Dr. Wu was right. This is hell.
The Living And The Dead
Well, at least I’m above ground. A couple of brilliant authors turned in their thesauri this week, namely Harper Lee and Umberto Eco.
Then again, it doesn’t even matter that their pens have run out of ink. The two of them have achieved a certain immortality. That’s all a writer can hope for.