In brighter news, my brother, Paiman, got engaged! Great news. I wish him and Jenny the very best. I have not talked to him to find out when the wedding is, but I will get pictures and all.
Now I battle the sickness. I am downing a bottle of NyQuil. I am also digging these Tylenol Colds. I am putting everything into my system. Just trying to flush this bugger out.
Why is this happening? Why am I sick? It's obvious isn't it? A part of me is dying away. And an even bigger truth, I am already dead.
Yes, I am the Do Do.
I wonder if this is how artists go. No health insurance. A seedy apartment. Books everywhere. Papers on the floor. A mild cold that blooms into something all powerful. A sadness to not be able to create. And thus, the sickness gets worse.
I am thinking happy thoughts now. Mary Poppins. Whiskers on Kittens. Anne of Avonlea. Whopper Strategies. Burt Kristbaum. Old friends. Yarn. Ants in my bathroom. Cockroaches on Hollywood Boulevard. The gentle thump of a pigeon.
God spare me from the desire for love, approval, and appreciation. God let me die quickly. Let me come back strong. Let me Obewon. Searching the city for sci-fi wasabi.
Here is me reading the beginning of THE WHOPPER STRATEGIES. I recorded it for Perry and them boys at Ellipses. I did it in this real weird voice. Then I was like, "Okay" and sent it. I am big into doing things on the fly and improv and what not, so I guess this will do. It is very strange to me though.
Of course, not as strange as being sick. Why am I sick? Someone read my palm. Somebody else check my pulse. For Godsakes is there a doctor in the house. Someone kiss me. I'm dying.