Friskyseal's Diary

IG: @friskyseal

[friskyseal]

A Secret, Sleeping in the Deep Sea

It's hot. I'm trapped in this ribcage, I’m trapped in this chest bandage, I’m trapped in these clothes, I’m trapped in this cubicle, I’m trapped in this office. All the layers that might make the summer unbearable. My desk is strategically placed so that I get to overhear the same conversation four times, that yes, he bought the Jetta, and you know you have to buy cars on the last day of the month because the dealership has to meet its quota, and what year is it? 2010 with such pride. In our first email exchange, he asks if I can I help this client with such-and-such; I respond affirmatively and P.S., how is the Jetta? It's good, he writes, but his last car was better. The next time he walks by he comments with perplexity that he doesn’t remember telling me about the Jetta. As the day goes by my head gradually yields down the ergonomic office chair toward my stomach. I just need to make it to 10, so I can make green tea from the free packets in the kitchen, so I can make it to 12 when I go outside and eat lunch in the Zen Garden, the junction of a sidewalk curb and some rich person's house. A homemade turkey sandwich sits on crossed legs as I let my eyes focus on something far away for a change. Twice a car has slowed down to shout in my direction, "Are you okay?" Yes, I’m fine, thank you—this is the Zen Garden, this is where I eat lunch, but I have to hurry so I can make it back upstairs, so I can make it to 3, so I can make green tea from the free packets in the kitchen, so I can make it to 5, so I can go home. My coworkers don’t understand how I can go outside for lunch when it is so hot. THINK ABOUT IT: HE SPENDS ALL HIS DAY AT WORK, SO HE CAN BUY A CAR, 𝘚𝘖 𝘏𝘌 𝘊𝘈𝘕 𝘋𝘙𝘐𝘝𝘌 𝘐𝘛 𝘛𝘖 𝘞𝘖𝘙𝘒. I still can't breathe, I am still broken. I still haven't saved any money. I still place my hopes in someone that has failed twice now, and he doesn't even know. I don't want him to know. I want to be forgotten. I want to be small, insignificant, and invisible. I want to be the consequence of erasure; I want to have nothing, and I want to be nothing. The summers do not faze me, because I know it will be winter again.

[friskyseal]

This Is a Story That Repeats

I would start by replaying a conversation between me and my mother as she was unpacking my stuff, starting with, "You're a 𝘨𝘶𝘺! You don't need a 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘺𝘦𝘳!" and my retort that I didn't in fact have a hair dryer because I sold mine in order to buy a more expensive, nearly identical hair dryer that I couldn't afford yet—and what she was holding was an older one I never used and that she could have for herself, and then I would continue by describing her flopping out another mechanical contraption as she declared with complete exasperation, "You don't need a 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘳𝘰𝘯!" to which I would correct her by responding, "That's a flat iron" and she would reply that she didn't even know what a flat iron was and this would lead to her venting that she wanted me to grow up, seriously, causing me to lift my head off the mattress and look for... 𝘢𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦! And from a voice that's half stuffed animal, half grown male struggling to contain its pubescence would come, "We don't like you! We want to go back to Petaluma! What's for dinner?"

[friskyseal]

On the Forest Floor

I sold my PlayStation3 so I could buy makeup brushes. I’ve decided on the MAC 190 foundation brush but I’m not sure if the ones on eBay are authentic so I may have to drive twenty miles north to a town that actually has a mall and pay retail price. The salmon wasn't defrosted yet so I had beans for dinner. Black beans. With salt. And water. Trying to make it on my own in a town called Petaluma. I check my bank account, ninety dollars. I remember there used to be a lot more zeros. I wonder where all those other zeros went. Tomorrow, after I go to the boutique hair salon and the boutique skin care specialist, another zero will be gone. But there is still the PlayStation money. I’ll have it soon. Makeup brushes are the solution to all of my problems. Bare Essentials concealer brush. That one should be safe to get on eBay. I can save money. I am responsible. I am living on my own, in a 100-year-old historic-hotel-converted-apartment in downtown small town middle of somewhere Northern California. South of here is San Francisco, and north is Santa Rosa, where the nearest MAC is. I need a foundation brush more than I need a PlayStation. Retail price is $32. Fuck. Plus tax. Fuck. Plus gas to get there. Fuck! I have to buy toilet paper. I have to 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘦 and 𝘣𝘶𝘺 𝘪𝘵. It costs me 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘺 to wipe my own ass. I try not to eat out anymore, but I still go to Whole Foods. Only unpasteurized orange juice. That other shit is not juice. I won't drink it. They fucking boil that shit it's not juice I don't care what they say. Florida oranges, 100% juice, not from concentrate—all of it is bullshit. It has to be fresh squeezed. I 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 to find a girlfriend. I wake up with a hard-on, and there isn’t any use for it. This is not good enough. I am not good enough. I can't sleep, I can't breathe, I can't get out of bed, I can't find a job, I can't shed the chest bandage, I can't function without the chest bandage, I can't shed this asphyxiation. Likewise, I can't achieve flawless skin without makeup, and I can play video games on my computer, so I can shed the PlayStation.

[friskyseal]

Introspection

𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

I'm still here; it's still me.

𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

This place is the most disgusting and inimical I've ever known. We get cut open, bars in our chests, then we roll around in our own filth with bags and bottles of our own blood. It's been completely dead. I haven't had a roommate since I got back to the normal ward. The few other patients in the ward stare at me—at my marvel of six drainage bottles, all nearly full. I don't look back at them. I'm not supposed to be here.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

Everything I’ve done in the past year has been to come back here.

𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨?

Not good.

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘦?

It's still too weak.

𝘚𝘰, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸?

We go back and do it again.

𝘐𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵?

No, it can be done. He just hasn't done it yet.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.

No, he's gone until the fourth.

𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵.

I won't be on it.

𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩.

I won't be home for it.

𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦?

Nobody.

𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺?

I'm used to it now.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘯, 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

Yes, I do. I wish I could talk to him.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘛𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺?

Terry came into my room on December 24th flanked by two reluctant-looking male nurses wearing matching Santa hats. He was the large middle-aged man in the center, his gray hair also covered with a Santa hat. He was carrying a small gift basket.

"Do you speak English?" he asks with an accent.

"Yes."

"Oh! Where are you from, mate?"

"The United States."

"Oh! A Yankee! I'm from Australia. This is for you."

"Ha! What's this for?"

"Nobody wants to be in the hospital on Christmas."

𝘏𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘚𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘴.

Then he asked if I wanted anything, "A book, maybe?"

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬.

And that he would come down later, so we could check out the cafeteria.

𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘛𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬?

The next day, yes.

𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳, 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘦?

That's where we had tea this morning.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?

It's nicer than a rich American hospital. Where we get water, they get sodas, juices, espresso, loose leaf tea. All different kinds of fruit, candy, daily newspapers. The tables are marble, the floors are carpeted. He let me stuff my pockets with green tea since we only have black.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮?

He works for an Australian-based mining company in Uzbekistan. He fell and fucked up his left eye; he's lost sight in it and they're still trying to get it back. He had to be flown out of the country immediately. The closest eye specialists were in the United Kingdom.

𝘖𝘳?

Or Germany, at the Helios hospital on the outskirts of Berlin.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

He vomits inches away from me as I'm eating my breakfast.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵?

He shat himself in his bed.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩.

I don't care.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘦.

19. A swede. He's a big fucking baby. He keeps whining to the nurses about an "English speaking person" that's supposed to be here to help him. He also has a personal servant, his father.

𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘥.

I didn't need it.

𝘏𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦.

I offered to pay. He wouldn't let me.

𝘐𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘈𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 25, 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

I heard he's stuck in the IMC; they removed one of his drains and he started spewing blood.

𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭.

I'm back to "normal" in a week and a half.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

I don't want their help. I don't want to be here.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

My one and only life as a 22-year-old—every move was so that I could be here, where I don’t want to be.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘔𝘊 𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦?

I went looking for her on Christmas. She told me she was working then. I guess I never got her name. I thought it started with an 'A', but the nurses that were there told me there was no such person. The problem was she always worked late at night, after the wards lock up and you can't get into them without buzzing the desk. I have to come up with an excuse to be there each time. It's even more difficult considering it's mostly infants there. Whatever, I will find her this week.

𝘈𝘯𝘥?

I want to see her again.

𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

Definitely.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘱.

Tomorrow, I'll have my final drain bag removed, then I can have a proper shower and shave and finally put on some clothes I like. I can't wait.

"𝘉𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭!"

Exactly.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘚𝘸𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦?

He won't shut up. His father won't fucking leave.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘸𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘰 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘞𝘢𝘳 𝘐𝘐?

I'm pretty sure 1) nothing, and 2) sell weapons to Hitler.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦?

Ironically, they took me to the pediatric intensive ward to have the final drain removed. She was there. She helped removed the drain.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳?

Nothing, I got distracted. It was weird. I couldn't say anything. She tried talking to me.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥?

They hit me in the metaphorical nuts; the two doctors started talking about how wonderful my result was.

𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯?

Yeah, that's what he said. Fucking hell.

𝘚𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.

Oh, yeah.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵.

They said it would be the worst idea in the whole world—the bars could easily get infected and then they would all have to come out. My chest doesn't have enough blood right now in order to tolerate the healing process. It couldn't be done, they said.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵; 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥.

My limbs go numb easily.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦: 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘹.

And how I’m always going to find something wrong with it.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺.

Better than they do.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘢𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.

I'm never coming back to this place. Not one more penny from me. They have to fix it now.

𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘋𝘳. 𝘊𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘓𝘰𝘴 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴.

No matter how many there are, we'll find a way. It's just taking something out; a proper surgeon's job.

𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸?

Five.

𝘏𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.

But I suspect that will change at some point in the near future.

𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘵.

Last night I dreamt that I was at home arguing with my mom, about still being in pain, and having to come up with another seven thousand dollars in order to go back, and being so frustrated and feeling so helpless that I was in this situation again.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

I woke up, and I was still here.

[friskyseal]

My new roommate in the pediatric intensive ward is a 14-year-old boy. I don't want this to sound, uh, weird or anything, but he is beautiful. I want to say to his parents, you have a beautiful young boy. He is everything I want to be but never again can. But he is also too small, too slow, too weak, and too dumb. I am bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, better. Even disabled, I can take him. I am here alone. Everything I've been through comes with me.

[friskyseal]

The charge nurse of the pediatric intensive ward comes through my room with what looks like some kind of tour.

"…And this is Mr. Reinschreiber, from Canada."

"No, no, no!!! America! America!"

She laughs and corrects herself.

"This is a huge insult, isn't it?" remarks one of the tour-goers.

"Yes, it is."

Now every time she introduces me, she tells that story and identifies me as "Mr. Reinschreiber, America! America!"

[friskyseal]

"Is this the IMC?”

"This is children's. IMC is full." The cute nurse from before.

Hmm. Is that good or bad.

"Do you want this?" she asks, pulling otter3 out of my bag and holding him up in the air. He had been scurrying to the top the whole time, I'm certain.

"Yes!"

He rests silently on my crotch, protecting against possible threats. There have been multiple incidents resulting from a language barrier resolved simply by shaking him at the offending German and having him go, "Ouahghghgttt!!!!!" The German laughs and then leaves me alone. Very useful. Big mistake last time thinking I could do this without him. I thought being 22 years old and traveling alone to a different country would be a good opportunity to grow up and leave my otter at home. Well, we see how that turned out.

[friskyseal]

"Do you remember the first thing you said to me after the surgery?"

He shook his head, no.

"I have a memory. I want to know if this actually happened."

"All right."

"You said, 'I fixed it.'"

"Yes."

"And I said, 'Fuck you.'"

"Yes, yes! That's it."

I reached for his hand and held it affectionately.

"Fuck you. Fuck you. You were wrong."

"I was wrong."

"And I was right."

"You were right."

I wrung my grip while adding a final “fuck you”, with gratitude and love, and then released his hand.

[friskyseal]

My Fist Clenches When I Tell It To, This Will Be a Good Life

fhere are tubes in every orifice of my body. the IMC nurse is cute.

is she single? thssss is what i want to know

fucccccccck this impotance, i Wanr our boidies to touxh...im gonnna ask her out...so hard to breathe///breathing with tubessssssss//,,,,shes so cute

[friskyseal]

The White Spirit

When we were finished, it was 12:30 a.m. I looked nervously at the clock outside the door.

"Have you been given a room yet?" he asked.

"No, I'm not checking in here until tomorrow. I'm staying at a hotel. Do you know if the busses are still running?"

"I don’t think so. Where is your hotel?"

"It’s pretty far," I lamented, unsure of what to do. I was hungry and exhausted, like nothing but these meetings could ever replicate.

He looked at me for a moment in thought, and then:

"I can take you."

I hadn't considered that. I was worried about how far it was, and figured if I could just get to the train station, that would be enough.

"Are you sure? I only need to get to the S2 station."

"It’s no problem. Let me get my coat."

I'll never know, but I think he would’ve taken me the entire way had I asked. I think he felt bad about me having to come back for a second time.

When he returned with his white coat, we started down the long, empty hallway full of endless, awkward silence.

"The smell… of this place," I mused aloud, trying to break the tension.

"It smells like a hospital?"

"No, it smells like 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 hospital."

Outside now, the freezing air. I stepped nervously on the wet pavement over patches of snow. Farther out, we approached a lone car in an otherwise vacant parking lot.

"You’ve got to be kidding me."

“No,” he replied.

"My car is nicer than this."

He pulled out some kind of tool and began to furiously scrape ice off of the windshield.

"It’s a French car,” he said cheerfully as he scraped.

"I didn’t know the French made cars," I responded with amusement.

"I was never one for material things," he declared softly as we stuffed into the tiny hatchback, our shoulders within millimeters of each other.

He drove about as hazardously as you would expect, given the number of surgeries I’ve had. The death-defying expedition concluded with him driving up onto the sidewalk, directly in front of the station. I quickly collected my backpack and pulled myself out from the car.

"Thank you, Professor Schaarschmidt! See you tomorrow!" I yelled as I slammed the door shut and ran up the steps to the train platform.

[friskyseal]

As Water Falls From My Eyes

This is the coldest, darkest, loneliest place on the planet. I wish I could write about what’s happened so far, but I'm running out of time. They're moving too fast. I feel sick. I hate this place. He said, 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘴. I can still leave. What if I just left? All the strength I've built since being here last time, I can use it to leave. I can just get up and leave. I don't have to be here. I can leave right now without telling anybody. Just grab otter3 and leave. Forget the other stuff, just leave. Why do I even need to be here I can leave. Go home now please please please please please just leave.

[friskyseal]

The Downed Frigate Orpheon

"I'll give you a thousand dollars for the flight. But that's it."

That's enough.

"It just 𝘣𝘰𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘴 my mind why you can't see someone here; Babe [she calls her husband Babe] goes to an orthopedist here and gets great care."

My grandmother. The one I haven’t killed yet.

"It's funny, her sisters were always go-getters, overachievers, they really wanted to succeed—your mom, all she wanted—well, she has you, you're her family—but all she wanted was to raise a family, and it went up in flames."

[friskyseal]

Rejoice Evermore

I want to have sex with sixteen-year-old girls, distinctively because I forgot to when I was actually sixteen. I’m writing this in the state of Nevada, so I’m allowed to say that. When I get back to California it won’t be true anymore. I want my hair to be shiny but not oily. I’ve spent hundreds of dollars in the past year searching for the perfect underwear. Visible pores on my face are totally unacceptable. Presumably my first girlfriend has an ass, I wonder how big it is? You can tell from the sound of my voice that I am a virgin. Milk is probably poison. The lettuce at Subway is probably green confetti. Hopefully I won’t get a speeding ticket on the way home this time. For a while I was anxious about having an anus. There is a 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 at the bottom of 𝘮𝘦? What if all my shit falls out? My dad lives with his brother now; his old roommate Rick is in Iraq again, driving a 6 million dollar truck for the Army, so he can pay his two ex-wives. I drove here, took my dad to a fish store (he likes fish), we ate, then we came home and I listened to him sleep while I energetically researched white goose down bedding. Medium density pillows, for back sleepers. I’m passionate about consumerism. I have no interest in having money, only the things that money pays for. I have social and sexual anxiety. I just have to slide it in that slot. But how? No, no, don’t tell me—I’m doing just fine over here, with my otters. Why am I doing this, holding the steering wheel with my knees while going 85, writing this down, so I don’t forget? All the memories this drive brings. A year ago, coming to take my dad to a comedy show. I am the sum of my influences and experiences. Or that other time, when he casually informed me that I am the product of artificial insemination. Evolution was about to weed me out of existence, but then humanity evolved just enough more to weed me back in. I’m not even supposed to be here, so I don’t know what else to tell you. Take it up with the state of Nevada. I want to be all things to all people at all times. I know I won’t be, but if I try anyway, I might be some things to some people some of the time, and that is sufficient.

[friskyseal]

Slow River

I'm drunk again, alone in my room, next to my otters. I need help. My chest is in four pieces. Help me. I can get out of bed, but not for long. My chest is slipping away from me; with each time it becomes less of a part of my body. And the money will be gone soon. I spent some of it assembling a computer. My mom came in my room and said I need a "Dr. Phil intervention" (she likes Dr. Phil) and that I should be spending the money on ways to find a career, not computer games. She then asked if I know what an intervention is. I can't talk to her without laughing. It hurts to laugh. I shower in the dark. Help me.

Yesterday I went to "A Touch of Beauty" in the Northridge mall and purchased Epicuren Fine Herbal Scrub, despite the fact that on two separate, previous occasions I purchased Extra Fine Citrus Scrub and the Microderm Cream. For aging skin. Help me. I'm drunk. Please help me. I have to go back to Germany. That's how I can end this. But he neglected to tell me that while yes, if I were willing to come back he would do it for free—the hospital would not. Six-thousand five-hundred dollars. God damn it. I'm drunk. I've wanted to write so badly, but there is nothing. I am empty. Help me. I am so weak, but there is still something that compels me to write. The things that make me weak, are also the things that will someday make me strong. I can go back and do it again. All of it, all over again.

I'm also learning to Method Shave. Second-quadrant shaving hell, every morning. Charles the Shave Master in Austin, Texas scolded me over the telephone that my elaborate skin care routine is melting off the acid mantle of my face. Four pieces. Help me.

I will miss this time, when there was still hope.

[friskyseal]

America - The Forever War

My bed hurts my back, my pillows hurt my neck. The expensive pizza we ordered didn't have much flavor. I guess I adjusted after all. I lost ten pounds. "Valley Urgent Care" again, this time with Mom. The nurse, an old Indian man. Why are you here? I want Vicodin. I show him my "passport." 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵. He shares that he has an artificial disc in his back. He mentions airport security and laughs. There's no reason to take my shoes off anymore. With the metal detector wand they started from my shoulders and 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘢𝘢𝘢𝘢𝘢𝘢𝘦𝘸𝘸𝘸𝘸𝘸𝘸!!!!!!!!!!! Off behind the curtain I went. Before they started patting me, I warned the TSA that underneath my shirt there was a large elastic bandage covering my whole midsection, just so they wouldn’t think I was hiding a bomb or something. As the nurse is flipping through my file, I catch a glimpse of a records subpoena. The doctor comes in. They didn't give you anything to hold you over? She asks. It's difficult to communicate, I reply. Have you been here before? Yes, once. I see, we gave you Xanax. Yeah. How did things go this time? Not well, but please don't tell my mother yet. She smiles. I'll give you Vicodin, but don't take it regularly; only at night, for comfort. And Ibuprofen for tissue healing. I’m really only interested in the comfort, but I keep that to myself. The prescriptions in my hand at the front desk, the Indian nurse comes over and offers his hand. We shake and he says good luck. In the car, I think about how happy I am to have met him, although I’m not sure why. I think about where I am. In the United States; in California; in Los Angeles. I made it out, I made it home. You're only getting one of these prescriptions, I tell my mom. 20 of them aren't going to last very long. Maybe long enough before I leave again. Airport Bus 128 to Kurt-Schumacher-Platz to U6 Friedrichstr to S2 Buch to Bus 354 Helios Klinikum. I know exactly how to get there. And that's good, because soon I will be back.

[friskyseal]

Light from a dark place

[friskyseal]

Goodbye, Helios

Wim is gone. We were alone for a few nights, after Andreas left, and before a new third arrived. (37 from Boston, incredibly nice guy, like a genius brought an American pillow and a huge plastic bag full of snacks except the Oreos he brought aren't Double Stuf so fuck him). I asked him if I could ask a personal question and if his visitor "friend" was more than just a friend and he said yes. He knew when he was 21. We replayed for each other our different perspectives of the Night of the Red Jacket Man. He said the nurses barged into their room and announced, "Barry is making trouble again" which I found absolutely hilarious and at first he and Andreas refused to move but they were given no choice. He said when he saw the language barrier I had with the nurses he understood me more, and imagined how difficult it was. Today he put his bag over his shoulder and said good luck with everything. I crawled out of bed, stood up, and said sorry for making so much trouble. If there ever was trouble, he replied, it is forgotten and he enjoyed my company. He left and I will probably never see or speak to him again.