For those who find their concern overwhelming: i'm not dead.
Even better, the drugs I'm taking have far more side effects than the disease. so i'm going to figure out how to wean myself off of them. I'll take temporary facial paralysis over constant insomnia, obesity, moodiness, high blood pressure, possible diabetes, weakened bones (read: yes men can get osteoporosis), decrease in my body's ability to produce steriods and hormones, and a weakened immune system. A major warning on the MayoClinic was, "Don't take this if you have a virus or infection." Yes I have a virus. Which is why I'm on anti-viral drugs. So while the drugs go on fighting each other, I still can't smile or close my eye.
I'm not bitter. It's the steroids. They make me moody.
Your love and concern have made me feel the richest of all men. If I really were dying, it'd be an honor to have each of you present at my cremation and sprinkling. For the record, said sprinkling should be on a certain secret beach, where last days are suns setting.
In other news: to end the contest for best pet, which has been between dogs and cats, I nominate the new best pet in the world: electrons. Tricky little buggers they are, and so poetic.
Speaking of which, poetry's grandeur astonishes me by the lack of detail it conveys with such succinctness. I mean that in a good way. I appreciate the way it doesn't propose to have any data for the unexplainable, instead leaves it out in lieu of foolishness. I started 6 poems today. That was a release. Not yet. You can see them later. They're still half-dressed.
Rilo Kiley, Johanna Kunin, Bonnie Prince Billy, George Winston.
It's 3am and less than 0.
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