I need alliterations as they keep it all interesting.

Last night I was a real human being. I went to the funeral service of a friend really to accompany another friend. The deceased I did not know well nor did I have too many personal conversations with, but the gesture was genuine. She was a sweet person–but is just a touch younger than my own father right now, and that is easy for me to see was a long and full life. This is not to discount the amount of love she seemed to bring to the world, one could only hope to have such an impact on so many lives. Some do not seem to enjoy such acclaim. I am kind of half ready to have my service be a small party among like what, 5 people. My relatives you wouldn’t want to have to deal with too much. No churches. No thanks.

The other incarnations of writers present last night were also great people ultimately–T, super fucking talented but hard for me to find common ground with as I think right now everyone is writing but me. B is, she is my one rock. Someone else I thought hated me but seemed to not know my name so how could he hold an opinion at all. Here I do write, sure, but that doesn’t count as nobody is paying me, and you fuckers are the silent however many. Almost two decades of shit here–many have seen me evolve from a turd into someone ultimately not as turdish, no nothing like that at all. I am still a giving creature very curious about the experiences of those in the world around me. Being out in the world– I felt seen but had not a fucking thing to talk about but this damn leg. I realize I should leave the house maybe once in a blue moon and I won’t feel so disconnected from all of you and floating out here in the bubble of whatthefuck I am thinking or pissed off at for the time.

Not leaving the house in 7 months–I think New Year’s was our last social event–but not leaving to do much aside from run around with Don a few times is actually very fucking terrible I realize and I realize I need to make shit move around me. It’s not like I don’t go out alone to do all I want to do. I eat out alone. I go to the store alone. I do everything alone. The shit I need to make happen around me–most of that involves finishing a few things, some of it involves, no actually all of it involves finishing a few things. I suppose at some point it will be evident in my expression that the stuff has been finished, but for now I have really no time in order to facilitate this at all. I have to make some big changes or I am fucked, really. My leg is purple and hurts like a motherfucker and purple is all I have to show for it, really for a limited time, hence it seemed appropriate to show off. Then the gimpiness will still be there and probably more obvious than I want it to be and walking will suck for long distances. Good thing I think marathons are a fucking waste of time—not being able to do one is not something I feel a moment to lament at all, fuck that noise. I realize many of you use that as some significant marker but no way. My lungs and heart have been messed up for years and pushing those factors, especially at this altitude. Nope.

I am trying to bio-feedback some new arteries and correct some of the burning neuropathy where I can. I am doing quite well but considering there is a level of deterioration I should be expecting. I also expect whatever honeymoon period I am enjoying is not a forever thing. Eventually I might be screaming take the fucker off! Trust me, that is not a day to revel in–but a possible outcome.

Oh, and in conclusion. Though I certainly enjoyed seeing the writer friends I had out there—I also realize it is death now that is getting some of us. And that is an underlying theme that is hard to fucking swallow. Cancer will likely take the next one if a stroke doesn’t get me first–that disease seems to be coming and going with a fervor lately. But some of the writers are dying and that is not easy to see.

Enough now. 7/2 is just another 4 hours away.