It was nice talking to an old friend last night. No matter how long a time passes we always seem to pick up right where we left off. Or it seems that way. And it’s comfortable. We can sit there and say nothing without it being uncomfortable and without there being any anger. I hadn’t fully realized, though, that I have not spoken to her — not much, at least — in over four years. That is longer than I thought. We used to talk a lot. Like, hours. I basically exited a certain social scene, for reasons obvious to anyone who knows what happened. I can’t be part of a scene where people are talking shit about me, and where no one will hear my side of the story because I don’t think it is anybody’s business. Certain people have contacted to say they miss me and that I should stop by. Which is nice. But I never do that. This friend owns a bar, and it sounds like she’s been firing just about everybody, with more to come. That secret is already out among those who need to know.
It’s just amazing to me that she sees through me so easily. I remember our first conversations. It was like she knew me through and through. I don’t consider myself especially memorable, so it’s a surprise to me when someone not only remembers that I exist, but that I’ve done certain things and said certain things. Memory is a convoluted kind of silence.
At the Trump Tower Garden, whence I have not been in a while. Lots of people here today. This place is usually deserted save for occasional itinerant tourists who swing through to take a quick look. My little secret is out.
I had to take an anxiety pill this A.M. Sometimes when I do this I feel like I am losing a distant relative, or that a long lost friend has died. That’s because I can’t drink within 24 hours of taking a benzo. I mean I can but the consequences are brutal, as I accidentally found out some months ago. That might have been the second worst day of my life, second only to the day after doing coke. But this time I felt no gratuitous sense of loss at not being able to drink for a while. It will be fine. Maybe it will be permanent.
Thoe panic attacks cut through to my innards. It feels like I have to shit fire. My head feels like it is full of whiteness.
I am here ahead of a 4:30 dermatologist appointment, an appointment I probably do not need any more than I needed the previous 2. This is a vestige of the therapist encouraging me to get a skin check. It seemed like a sane and safe thing to do. The derm plucked off a lesion for biopsy and found nothing. Now he wants to see how the healing of that lesion-plucking is going. I actually would have thought it would have healed better by now but whatever. I was thinking of getting another thing removed but the way this guy does it it really hurts. It’s not a pleasure cruise when the PCP does it, either, but it’s not as bad as the derm. It’s more like real surgery with the derm, whereas the PCP freezes things off.
OK,I feel fine post-benzo. Serene, even. I walked here from Astoria, and plan to walk back. The East Side was under martial law as the UN General Assembly does its thing. And I have made headway in turning one of my old web sites into a “responsive” thing. I took the low road and bought a batch of mobile-ready templates for $19. I really don’t care what the sight looks like any more so why not just take whatever works right off the shelf… I don’t know if this will bring my web traffic back but at least it will look a lot better than the sights I have up now. The old mantra was that ugly sites monetize better than beautiful ones. I’m finding that has changed.
Off to the 181, then dermatologist.
