I went to the surgeon today (yesterday when you read this). The scenario is decidedly undecided. We will know more in two weeks. I am tired, though. Every day, I'm waiting for tomorrow. This life in abatement makes me question, as the song goes, am I living or dying? All I can say in answer is that it is good to be young. But waiting for tomorrow is its own purgatory. I need to tell myself that I'll be fine, that everything is going to work out.
This is when I need the shoulder, however, of my own true love.
I've always imagined life would end this way, like some morbid Sam Shepard script, a bad illness, alone, in a cheap hotel in some deserted town. I'm researching towns right now.
I am by nature a pessimist. I always anticipate the worst. The surgeon said I looked healthy and vital. He was a nice guy. I don't know how often he tells patients they look like shit and should be careful. Maybe. It probably depends upon the doctor.
* * *
Morning. It is southern cold. The cat was at the door just before daybreak. Her boyfriend has not been around again, but I know the neighbors were taking a short vacation, so he is probably in the hoosegow. The maids come today, so I need to do a little prep. Not so much. I've been very good at putting things in "their places." I don't allow messes to conglomerate as in days of yore. I've ordered my life a bit better. . . at least the environment.
I did a couple of art experiments yesterday. One came off an interesting failure that gives me an idea, the other a complete failure that gives me ideas, too. Hours of work and nothing but ideas to show for it. I may try again today.
But as I did yesterday, I may go back to bed first. Another hour's sleep would be fine.
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