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the other one is for more specific memories. like a story. here is for touchy-feely-gay stuff.
2010-07-21 - 10:01 p.m.

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It's a long story. I thought about writing it all here, but this isn't the place. This is, though.

The doctors didn't like me at first because I was a "walk-in," someone "pushed buttons" for me. I was a deviation. Then they looked inside of me and realized that if I had waited a day longer, my blood might have gone septic and it would be more serious that a fucking fishbone speared into my esophagus.

I feel embarrassed when I think about it. Anyone in whom I confide that feeling says that it wasn't my fault, it was serious, it could have happened to anyone. But it's not just why I was sick, it was all of the doctors. Being faced with these brilliant, successful, hard-working people--who may or may not have any personalities at all--and having to say I live with my parents, I'm a musician. I didn't evaluate my food properly before swallowing.

The anesthetizing wasn't as dramatic as I thought it would be. Humans make drama, though, so I guess it only becomes that as much as I mold it to be. I still feel certain that that's what it's like to die, because, really, where the fuck was I for those hours? Minimal brain function is clearly not enough to feel anything, so I doubt zero brain function will fare better.

It may be all of the stuff that's been going into my veins, but I actually feel...kind of like I'm depressed. Or constipated. Probably both.

earlier - later