8:55 PM–08 December 2018
Yeah. Maybe, if I believe what other people tell me, five years ago–Sunday, December 8, 2013, Significant Other ‘n I went to a local event. Dined out. Returned home. Went to bed. Well, at least that’s what she (and not to put the onus on her, other people I know corroborate her version of the 8th of December, 2013.
I don’t know. Maybe they’re all fibbing. I don’t remember the day.
Nor do I remember the day before or, an even bigger deletion from the files of my mind, the day afterward, Monday, 9 December 2013. For that matter, I might say I checked out pretty much entirely partway through Saturday, December 7–guess I was celebrating the anniversary of Pearl Harbor ‘n got my brain bombed–and then I didn’t return for business until around December 14.
Early in the morning on December 14, that’s like 3:30 or 4:00 AM, I logged back in. My world had altered significantly during this brief interregnum.
First odor of business, I needed to use the bathroom. That was inconvenient ’cause I was hooked up like a fuckin’ Nintendo game and didn’t know where I was. Now, even though I’d accumulated almost three decades of keeping a plug in the jug and the stash in the trash back in ’13, I rather vividly remembered what it was like to awaken and not know where I was.
Not a problem, dudes and dudettes. All I needed was a bit of privacy and even that was relatively optional.
Wait! Hooked up? Yeah, with cables attached to my chest and arms, a drip tube stuck in my vein, and a machine making those strange electronic chirps next to my bed. OK, I was a bit on the fuzzy thinking side but if I didn’t know better, I would have guessed I was in a hospital. That was especially likely since I didn’t smell sulfur or brimstone and the room wasn’t particularly warm.
None of this mattered to me at the moment since I really, really, had to poop really in a hurry.
I swung my legs over the side of a lumpy, crummy mattress and tried to stand. I think I did manage to get on my feet, cables hanging awkwardly from my abused bod like Dr. Frank N. Stein’s homebuilt creation. I stood, kinda wobbly, looking for a restroom or something that would serve the cause but quicker than D. J. Trump could tell a lie, I was surrounded by a herd of nurses, all of which were telling me I had to get back in bed. I explained as best as I could that I needed to poop but they weren’t interested in my desires. I had to get back in bed.
That didn’t work well. I pooped. Right there. On the floor.
If you’re interested in this part of my story, you might want to read the collection of posts concerning my own, personal (very personal), myocardial infarction and my first year of recovery after getting new fuel lines.
This missive, however, is a different story. It’s more falderal. It’s my fifth anniversary gift to myself. Point. There is no justice in the world. Don’t believe me? Watch–or even better, read–the news. If there were justice, our 45th US President would still be a bankrupt tv comedian and someone, anyone else, would have his job. Faux News would be a sick cartoon, not a sick cartoon masquerading as a news network. England would be a stalwart part of the European Union. The Crimea would still be part of the Ukraine, China would be content selling cheap trinkets instead of dominating the known world and…me?
If there were justice in the rapidly overheating, storm ridden world we’re doing our best to destroy, I would be pushing up stout stalks of cannibus sativa, the green vines growing wildly from my ashes which Significant Other would have tossed out the back window into our weed patch.
No matter. For this half-decade anniversary, I’m going to record a few of the things I’m doing for a day or two. Unlike five years ago, I want a journal. Hope I don’t do a rerun of my last heart attack forgetfulness but here we go. This time I can read about what I did in my own words.
I’ll add to this stuff throughout the day. Pre-workout, post-workout; pre-motorcycle ride, post-motorcycle ride…I might even post a couple of motorcycle ride pix…and so on.