I don't know how long I'll be able to write this morning. I've been feeling badly the past few days and I now have a nurse lying upon my couch. I need a full-time nurse, I think. This getting old shit is. . . well. . . it is shit. Medicine, sure, but I need succoring, too. Much. I am tired of being alone. Isolating for three years after hardly ever being alone has taken its toll. Too much thinking. Too much liquor. I need a moderating presence. So, for a moment. . . .
Even though I was feeling poorly, I went out with the gymroids last night. It was outside at a favorite bar and I had that wonderful Mahi sandwich I like so much and a brewery beer, but the company was too much. You had to keep your guard up and be ready to punch back at all times. Two of the fellows there have grown stubble and let their hair grow. They say they want to be like me. I say, what, old and broke and alone? Have at it, dudes. One of them wrote me after I left. He was eating mushrooms "like the shaman." What have I done to these seemingly normal fellows?
Nothing, of course. I just like giving myself a little boost, thinking of myself as "an influencer"!
My nurse is gone now, and I need to prepare for the day. I had dreams last night, beautiful dreams. . . happy dreams. . . and I slept for nine and a half hours. I'll need to bolster myself for dinner and cocktails tonight. I can be at times. . . well. . . sketchy. I'm an ultra-sensitive emo who picks up on the slightest of things, but most of it is my own paranoid interior.
I miss the days of cocky C. S. Selavy.