Calmer

That’s what I think of myself these days. I don’t take things with as much vehement objection as before. Things like other people's eating, breathing, talking, and the people themselves. That's all. Other than that, I was cool. Okay, chewing gum if they were popping it, but seriously, who likes that? Numbers bothered me, and who had too much and who had too little (sports, AKB, not the little stuff like the boring ol distribution of wealth). Anyway, some of that slid from me after my cancer day, some of it I can wade through for awhile. When my roommates start up their meal time smacking and slurping it doesn’t bother me; if they do so in the middle of the night, I might be a little concerned, the mystery of when they're going to finish sticking in the mind till about ten minutes later when they do. I don’t mind when they’re blabbing on their cellphones in their outside voices, like the one you use on a busy street to make yourself heard over a passing truck or two (over? Okay, that’s pretty over). I like listening to people talk now. It’s about time. To think how much time I've spent hating the sound of other voices, Jesus I should’ve known I had cancer with it rotting my soul and stuff. So the physical cancer's elbowed aside the psychic. Some of it at any rate. Hell, I even try not to annoy my neighbors, though good job at that with my big ass walker I only use to piss at night getting in the way of my neighbor across the aisle. Damn, I hope I continue to live through this because now I might at least qualify for a passable human being

Except for the numbers. Again. In this case it’s my damn bag o nutrition. It’s 900 ml of nutritious calories and it takes forever to empty into my veins. Oh but I thought it would be over early. I mean the damn read out had it at 750 ml. 750! That’s almost over. Like I could be free of tubes and IVs and the machines latched to them to speed them up (good job at that) by 3:00 or 4:00 or something. It’s fucking 3:00 now and I’ve got to wait for the damn medicine bottle—and they don’t have it at 200ml per hour, like they always do! Are they purposely trying to fuck with my life? I think they are. They are trying to slow me down so I can’t get out. Now it’s going to be 6:00 or later, fucking usual time. So I get to the Day Room at 8:00 yadayadayada, it’s a usual night of sleeping and waking with a demon urge to piss every hour or so. 

Whew.

Sorry to say those are my real feelings, removed by about 15 minutes of rehab, including 7 minutes of huffing and puffing on the exercise bike (but not as much as I had expected, yea). Or about a hair’s width of mood, or my fingers on the keys. It still gets me. More than the numbers themselves and the frustration of expectations they invariably bring (I think Zeus must be a nest of numbers, re: punishment of Sisyphus), it is the entitlement I feel the damn ml per hours give me, so everything I said up top oh I feel it and feel it and feel it, like I want to get up and start smacking people for all they've done to me. Oh why do they keep interrupting my bag flow to freedom with all this fucking medicine? Sad sad sad, but if you opened up my heart you would probably hear these sentiments expressed wholly without irony but with plenty of vehemence. 

Infant enthroned, yea.