2002-10-15 - 8:30 p.m.

I'm tired and cold and I need to pee.

I was going to have that be my whole entry - but wouldn't that be a kick in the britches. I have so much fucking homework to do that it makes me cry. So much French homework. It's my own fault for putting it off, and it's only made worse when I decide to write an entry just to avoid it even longer.

Ben is pretty sure that he is about to close on this house in Rollinsford. You heard me. Rollinsford. Yeah - so that's that. That. Right. Did I mention that I have a lot of homework?

I don't even know why I started to write this entry. I have plenty to talk about but am not really in a mood to write about any of it. I had to watch a French film today. It was no L'argent de Poche. But really, what is? what is?

I'm getting so sick of these pills ("my pills!"). Yellow ones, horsey ones, chalky ones, little brown ones. The vicodin is about a powerful as Flintstone fucking Chewables at this point. The honeymoon between my brain and the narcotics is over. If it ever truly began. The vicodin now lasts between 3 1/2 and 4 hours every night (in the beginning it would get me through pre-bed, all night, and into morning). I have to wake up in the middle of the night and take another one if I want to make it to 8 AM in one piece (read = not bleeding and weeping and clawing at my skin). Waking up at 4/5-ish to take the 2nd pill always results in all sorts of fun that is funny. Like dropping the pill in the sheets, and me, without my glasses on, sifting through them desperately calling to the pill, begging for it to disclose its location, while my posters look down at me disdainfully, clicking their tongues and stroking their beards and saying, "What's to be done with this Zachary Foote?!". Or spilling the Aquafina's contents on my bed. And then my bed is wet. And then I don't get a gold star on the Weekly Reader calendar. But seriously, I woke up Friday night between regiments of Vicodin and I was CONVINCED I was supposed to call Monique and Brett in Brooklyn and remind them to catch their 3:30 bus. The weird part isn't their middle of the night bus - that part is actually TRUE - they were catching a bus to get back to NH by Saturday morning. But they certainly didn't need ME calling and reminding them. And I almost did call them too. I was that sure that I was supposed to. You'd think that it was bad enough that the two of them went to the Ben Folds and Stephen Merrit (of The Magnetic Fields) show the night before - but invading my dreams with made up chores? Not cool.

From about 1 to 3 each day I feel OK. Not good, but OK. Like I don't want to kill or strangle or destroy anything that's in front of me. So if I interact with people outside that little window, I MAY be smiling and talking about Unicorns and posies, but chances are I'm just thinking about the throbbing/blinding pain in my face/head/jaw and how, if I wanted to - if I *really* wanted to, I could probably hollow you out and live in your carcass through the winter. I'm just saying . . .

I had a Moe's today and it tasted so good. You can always count on Moe's to really come through for you in the clutch. It's weird, I don't like Provolone - NORMALLY, but in a Moe's, it's like a little slice of heaven . . . well, several slices of heaven I guess.

I've drank every day for maybe a week and a half. No, not A&W - real beer. Is that sad? I thought so, and Ben thinks so - but I don't think so anymore. I'm not drinking to get drunk here son, I'm drinking to help "amplify" the vicodin. I'm talking only 2 or so (maybe 3) beers before bed/during dinner. Just to take the edge off. No - I am not a Tony Stark or a Nurse Lockhart in the making, but trust me, if you were feeling pain this bad you would eat tires if someone told you it would help. Frankly, I'm surprised Ben hasn't come home yet to find me pulling a Kitty Dukakis (ie -guzzling rubbing alcohol under the sink).

My parents try the absolute damndest to make sure I am always as stressed out as possible. So, my hat's off to both of them - mission accomplished. They have been "discussing" (read: arguing) over who "has to" bring me home from my surgery. Oh, so sorry my brain-splittingly awful surgery is INCONVENIENT. Trust me, I'd rather not have it myself. But considering that the doctor can't LEGALLY release me unless someone's there to drive me I'm gonna need one of them to be there. My dad's gonna do it, which, according to him, he was going to do all along, but according to my mother, wasn't always the case, and according to me, I DON'T FUCKING CARE ANYMORE, because at this point I'll just have my old friends at Mac-Durgin Associates pick me up. (I lie - I WISH I had friends at Mac-Durgin Associates)

I'm probably getting moved back on to Tuesday nights at work. Part of me is happy about it (since it was back in the glory days of "the Tuesdays" that Kate and I truly ruled the school), and it's MUCH better than the soul-eating Friday nights that I'd be trading it for BUT - I'm not too keen on working Monday through Thursday and then Saturday. It's not like I can do much Friday night anyway, I'll still be working Saturday morning. And this possible 37 hours a week plus school plus my correspondence course with Devries - somethin's gotta give.

I'm actually looking forward to the entry I plan to write after I have my surgery. Well, not RIGHT after I have my surgery. But, in that next day or so that I recuperate at my mother's palatial estate in Tilton. (Except it's not really palatial nor an estate) I imagine it will go something along the lines of "Ouch Ouch Bam Bam Hungee - Me So Hungee - Brap". Hmmmm - that almost perfectly replicates Fred's last e-mail to me.

Well, Ben is rolling coins behind me and looks to be continuing to long into the night, and God knows I should have started my pounds and pounds of homework earlier, and will be up conjugating and flim-flamerating all night long in French while Ben continues to exclaim such bon mots as "Damn - that's a *lot* of dimes." over and over and over again.

Oh Fuck. Real World is on tonight. Man, I need to quit school or something if I'm gonna fit in all this time for work, TV, and roast beef sandwiches. Mmmmm - roast beef sandwiches. . .

It's been real,

Tennessee Tuxedo

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