seven sleeps

it's all happening , my sister and steve have gone to see the wiggles, or just steve and byron and monica and briana are shopping. and mom and dad have gone to see robbie williams. it seems all the big stars are in australia. i'm just shocked and appalled the wiggles have moved on so quickly. serioulsy didnt the yellow wiggle get herpes last week? and now he is out, that's a bit harsh.

seven sleeps till i leave UVa, wow the compression of time is a real mind fuck. Things that seem to be taking a long time, then the instant they appear over they become condensed and seem like an instant. Like i'm sure that 25 years in prison would drag on for what seemed like forever, then with only one week left of the sentence, i'm sure you would look back and say 'actually now that i think of it, it went pretty quick.' Like with any aspect of life, you spend a lot of time waiting for shit, and that waiting seems like forever, and when that shit finally does come, you think, wow actually those last few years seemed like nothing. It's the quick compression, it must be some psychological mind trick that the brain does so we can process our environment. Like how they say a squeaky and rusty door can cause more of a disturbance to your mental health than the death of a close friend. Because the mind can adapt to the loss of some loved one, and has the mechanisms to overcome it, but the squeaky door is insidious and going for months it cause more concern than the death.

Anyway, obviously i've had a few drinks. It's friday night, so it's ok, and i just finished a three hour exam. And tomorrow night i'm going to a sorority party that a girl invited me too. Finally i get in with the sorority girls and i have to leave. And as usual my alcohol binge ends at three in the morning, sitting at the computer and ready to write a story. So here goes. oh yeah, i noticed when i do paragraph indents, and speech indents the dam blog thing takes them away. But why is it i have to be tipsy to write these bizarre stories? abstract thinking! I think it would be horrible to truly lose a function of life, and then told that because of such a loss you are not able to live.

Disabled Life
One hour and fifty three minutes to the sink. Today there was a fall, he lifted himself with too much enthusiasm onto the cold metal and leather chair, and it tipped. Loitering on the wooden floor, he glanced up at his bed; now an unclimbed fortress, the sheets of brick and the clock playing with him—suggesting the pace. A bloodied left hand that needed cleaning; they still provided a woman called Sheeska who would soon wake and make the hostile commute to his home. He could raise the alarm, and he could lose his dignity.
Just breathe.
They allowed dignity till death, and gave him a modified home. He could see the doorway with a shaky glare, a bladder causing the early intrusion, it was An Achilles he didn’t prepare for, with his routine that could allow no freedom and could bare no witness lest they commit themselves. Dragging and pulling, he shuffled and crawled across the floor, with fingers white from pressure. A body with a lost memory of exercise, it exhausted easily. He sucked in the cold morning and dark air, things he wanted to do were there to keep the inspiration; things that seemed simple and elegant and powerful, and things that reach and light a match in the dark, and for things that don’t need to be stretched and kept just out of reach.
The water trickled at first—the low sink was still an effort. The warmth took its queue and poured down from the adapted nozzle. He did it without assistance. And he swallowed his frustration. The memory of using a now foreign muscle was shoved into a deep recess of his mind, he held it tight with chains and locks and thought of the future. A big dream, now different than the dreams of youth, and different than the dreams before the accident of last October and the extreme policy change of last May. The world was now different, and a law was now in place that he must accept or go mad with anticipation, which told that he must die. No more would the frail receive treatment; with the low sinks and the ramps smashed. Smirks from children, and a countenance of pity from adults was to be eradicated. The pity of the masses was to be eased, and so too was his pain. A new doctrine was enforced, and then backdated. Humanity was too superior to be brittle.
A photograph and a last vestige of his love; he was allowed to look into the eyes of the woman who died in the accident, and he felt a rush in his heart—perhaps he would join her. The needle pricked the skin of his left arm, and he barely felt the intrusion and then lost consciousness.