Stomach Flu

I have a feeling that what I came down with yesterday was not food poisoning, as I had thought, but the dreaded stomach flu that’s been going around. I spent yesterday moaning and feverish, having weird totalitarian dreams of reality as a gestalt wherein I could never be well again because it wasn’t part of the total picture, and every shift or movement I made in the bed to make myself feel better was followed by the admonishment that I was still well within the limits of reality’s plan, and it by no means excused me from the execrable position of being sick. Somehow I had aligned myself with a political party of pure evil. It made no sense.

This is the second time I am writing this post. The first time, something went wrong and the post never went through when I hit the publish button.

I went to Virgin after applying for an internship with the City of New York. I picked up the new Paul Westerberg, “Folker,” and a Kreidler cd I’d never heard of called “Weekend.” For Kreidler highlights, see “coldness” on “Appearance and the Park,” and the one with Momus on their self-titled album, the title of which escapes me now.

While reading a blog recommended to me by a hirsute friend by way of his own blog, I was reminded of a story I’ve related to no one save my mother. A few weeks ago, right before the Ted Leo concert at the Bowery Ballroom, I was walking around the block to waste some time. Who should approach from the opposite direction, but Teddy Leo himself. I started and made to say something, but then came up against the surreal fact that TED LEO DOESN’T KNOW WHO I AM. So we just kind of looked at each other suspiciously while trying to act like we weren’t paying any attention to one another.

I am still not 100%. I can’t seem to eat anything. On the plus side, the body under stress seems to have ways of dealing with privation you can’t tap into when healthy. I can only hope my testicles aren’t being slowly reabsorbed into my body for sustenance.

Another strange story to relate. A year ago this week or so I was in Jamaica, I was in love, and my mother was getting married. I danced on an outdoor pool deck in bare feet until they bled. The day after I got back I puked and roasted with fever all day. Till now I thought I had gotten food poisoning from a bad McDonald’s strawberry shake gotten the night before. I’m wondering, though, if I haven’t stumbled onto some grim somatic ritual my body observes the new year with. Right before my birthday I spend the day emptying of anything nourishing POST HASTE. I need to find another “old reliable.”

At least this illness has given me the impetus to knock it off with the drinking for awhile, already.

I suppose I could spend the rest of this post complaining about the emasculation of living in NYC. But I won’t.

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