mahiwaga

I woke up quite anxious at 5am today, with what felt like a hot flame searing the inside of my stomach. This is rather unexpected since I have been taking Zantac 150 milligrams twice a day religiously.

I have never been good with deadlines. Just the mere thought sends shivers of panic scurrying up my spine.

I also had a look at some of the pictures that were taken last weekend. Boy, am I fat. The raving hypochondriac in me swears that I have Cushing's syndrome or something. I swear I have the truncal obesity and the wasting of the extremities, and the purple striae. I refuse to admit it's because I eat like crap and don't get much exercise.

Still, I think I have gained about 30 lbs. since college, nearly 60 lbs. since high school. It's really hard for me to let go of the idea that this is some kind of disease process.

Then there is the chicken-and-the-egg problem: have I gained all this weight because I'm depressed, or am I depressed because I gained all this weight?

Somewhat humorously in a fatalistic way, I have noticed a growing small black spot on the volar surface of the proximal interphalangeal joint of the index finger on my right hand. Obviously (so saith my hypochondriac inner voice) it must be melanoma. I have to smile macabrely about this, since cancer is probably one of the fastest ways to lose weight with minimal effort. (Another way would be to contract tuberculosis. Not that I'm trying to make light of people sufferring from chronic, possibly incurable diseases.)

(As a side note, I am currently a textbook case of being underinsured with regards to health care. I am avidly awaiting the activation of the much more robust health plan I get with my new job. Right now, my health insurance pretty much only kicks in if I lose a limb or need a kidney. And that'll only happen after I shell out $2,000, which, admittedly, is probably pretty easy to do if I end up in the hospital and/or need surgery.)

But enough self-pity. (At least for this entry.)

N would be proud of me. I have learned, through much travail and many tribulations, that the trash can is my friend. Can't fit in the suitcase or box? In you go. Nothing beats travelling light.

What I want to know is whether or not I can get the Salvation Army to pick up my furniture.

The question for today is: How the fuck am I going to get rid of all this shit?

Naturally, I am at a Starbucks procrastinating as usual.

This intersection of Webster and Clybourne is kind of interesting, in terms of allusion. Sure, a Starbucks is not that startling, but what I find funny is that there is a pizza joint called Pequod's just across the street. The trifecta is that I have a friend whose name is pretty close to (but not exactly) Ishmael who likes hanging out here. All that's missing is a Moby Disc.

Okay, I am being bizarre.

Jesus Sweet Christ, maybe I should just buy a flamethrower and be done with it. I would be quite happy to just flambe my furniture.

To quote Usher, "Let it burn, let it burn, gotta let it burn."