It used to be 4. Now it is 5 pills I ingest each morning. Soon it will be six, I think. Possibly not, depending how much I end up really needing some of the pills in the medicine-bottle cap seen here.
I take my daily pills sitting in the shower. It would likely not be an issue anymore but I remember the original prescribing doctor reminding me that these type of pills can make your body feel like it sinks into the air, and you risk falling down if you’re not paying attention. So I take them sitting in the shower.
I do not like taking pills. The 5th pill was prescribed months ago but I only started taking it last week. I need to arrange to take a new pill on a day when I would not have to be concerned that side effects would intrude upon the day’s affairs.
I took one pill in that spirit last year and was lucky I did. With a day to waste waiting for the drug to take effect I was on the shitter for 4 hours, reveling in the joy of a day diahretically wasted being a guinea pig for the pharmaceutical industry and the prescribing doctor, who admitted this might not be the silver bullet pill for me.
This new pill seems to not affect me in any meaningful way. It is in the same class as a pill that made me suicidal when I was in my 20s. Now I know that this class of pill is known to have that effect on people in their 20s. Medicine did not seem to know that, and they certainly did not believe me when I told them of my experience with this shit after I damn near jumped off the John Jay Walkway in 1990-something.
I am writing this from home. I mean, I guess I call this home. It has never felt like anything other than Tom’s place, and I should feel priviliged to be allowed to pretend it is my home. Life is a rental, all houses and homes nothing more than motel rooms we trash and leave behind when we scuttle off to skulkier climes.
I do not like writing from here. I have seldom done so in recent years. The place weighs heavy on my sense, heavier on my heart.
It was pouring rain earlier. Weather forecasts were not wrong. I got out early enough to secure provisions for the afternoon, not certain when or even if it would really rain. I am no wuss about inclement weather but I hate being in the rain. The pelting feeling of being spit-upon stirs anger in me in the same way discovering that 5 tiny chocolate bars I stole from a company candy bucket have melted in my pockets, making it look like I carry wads of fresh fœces in my pants.
With this day off I look forward to a new beginning at the work place. I’ll be working 4 days a week instead of 5, and the days will be consecutive. No more spilt shift, or shit splift, as I call it. The split week has been more disruptive on my lifestyle than I realized or would admit. For long enough I was just happy to have a job again and I gladly let any indignity pinch me. It is one of many ways in which this job has, like so many realtionships and interactions in my life, become an abusive relationship. I let it happen, I practically will it into being.
I thought of that, crystal clear, on what eneded up being the last night I stayed at the horny girlfriend’s place last year. She liked when I called her that, and she called herself the horny girlfriend, so I’m OK with continuing to use the name. But as I lie on the floor in the narrow space between her bed and the wall, after falling from the bed that was just too narrow for 2 bodies, I heard her laugh. She laughed to the point of cackling as I lie there in a heap, thinking I may have cracked a rib or punched the snot out of some other internal organ. I told her I might be hurt. She just kept laughing as I lay scrunched on the floor for several minutes.
