"Up in the morning and off to bed. Hoping that maybe I'll wake up dead. Staying awake ain't got no class. I just wanna lay on my ass...king of the king of the king of the bed..." David Lindley got it right. (See Twango Bango II )
An aside: Damn, on KGSR Austin 2001 Best Songs poll, at 103 is, I can't believe it, is King of the Bed. Have to check this out. I'm shocked that this song appeared on anybody's list. (But, I do love it so. David, you're my hero; greasy hair, polyester, those white shoes, and all else that make you so physically repellent. They just add to the mystery. I love you.)
Speaking of waking up dead, I saw on my girlfriend's blog, my poor sweetheart who is such terrible pain, her honey gone, has said she often sees her life stopping without Jerry. But she says overtly that she's not talking about suicide.
I always thought everybody thought about suicide. I can't think of a time when it hadn't crossed my mind. And often. So what? Big fucking deal. (No, wait. Must have started after we moved to the suburbs. That's what to kill yourself over. No one in his right mind will fault you for it. At the stupid memorial you told everyone you didn't ever want to have: "Oh, it was because of that move to Port Washington." "Oh, of course!"
Suzanne's husband felt like that his whole life too. (But he never had those glorious years in Flushing Queens where suicide did not, could not exist. Both Chip and Suzanne had never thought about suicide. Not even once. (Chip likely thought about homicide. He's such a misanthrope.) Those two were on such an even keel. Suzanne's husband feels certain that our lunacy stems directly from all our barbarian (Hungarian) genes. I wouldn't argue. Especially after learning all about my unpleasantly dysfunctional ancestors during my Since When research. I think it may be comforting to know that you're descended from crazy people. (Not the loony aunt locked up in the attic. Talk to Charlotte Bronte about that.) We just had your everyday, run-of-the-mill, garden-variety dysfunctionality.
I'm not feeling suicidal these days though I did more often than not after recovering from the ear mites and ring worm. A person cut in two is not a happy person. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Like the beautiful, "You know my friend told me that cancer was the best thing that ever happened to her." I'll trade you one cancer for all the ignorance and mishegoss I can carry. Yes, I know more about myself, I'm able to write whatever the fuck I please and not care if it's good, bad or dull. (Though, I would be bummed if I were dull.)
I like having lots of people read my drek. I feel like a flasher who just leaves his raincoat his open all the time. During this post-trauma period, I cut myself once just to see what it feels like. I really did. Guys, cutting veins hurts. I learned that I sure as hell don't want to die by adding pain on top of the pain I already have. Good to know. FYI, I knew I had an awful lot more cutting to do if I were trying to off myself for real. And if you choose it's time to go, you don't go when your husband is literally in the next room and checks in on you regularly. That's plain stupid. But I scared the shit out of my sweetheart. He was afraid that I'd get locked up in the rubber room. He wasn't into that.
I just did teeny little test trial. I wasn't looking for a way to kill myself at that moment. I wanted to see what the cutting is like. Cutting sucks. Royally. I despised the cutting. (That's a good thing.) But I did think it was cool watching blood spurt. It was certainly preferable to the cutting that preceded it.
Look, it's a lot more pleasant than the Exorcist-worthy projectile vomit I had post chemo near the corner of 77th and 3rd. (I was shocked at strength of propulsion. This was new to me.) Thank God my girlfriend, the doctor, had accompanied me while I my body was loaded up on poison. Man, when I became ill on the street, did she go into calm mode. She's really good. No, she was amazingly good. And she got me home in one piece. (Audge, you are simply, the best. In every way.)
What I have always found funny is that, by the time I reached an age when I could hold back the vomit until after my father pulled off to the side of the road, I try not to "make a mess." as began to feel worse and worse as Audge and I headed for the subway, I looked over at the curb, found a place between two cars to throw up, because God forbid I leave my mark in front of a person's driver's seat. How awful would it be if the person stepped in it while just getting into his car? I felt much better placing my mess where I did, and I didn't leave a spec on either car to my right or left.
I got home and as I stood in the living room, I noticed I was peeing in my pants. "Oh God, Audge, I'm peeing in my pants!" (I had no physical control whatsoever. As if there was no way to stop urine flow. Strangest sensation. My brain had no control over any of my bodily functions.) So, I run to the bathroom but first, I move the bathroom rug to the non-Fran half of the room. God forbid I should soil it. (C'mon, that's ridiculous!) I'm far from being a neat freak. Actually, I'm the exact opposite. I just don't think it nice to leave my precious bodily fluids for someone else to clean up.
Mind you, the chemo drugs aren't supposed to start making you feel ill until about four hours after getting them. I think this bizarre reaction (the doctor had never seen it before in all his thirty years) was the beginning of the end of Fran 1. From that weirdness at 77th and 3rd, who could know?