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Monday, Oct. 14, 2002 / 8:19 p.m. ~Out! Damn Pseudoephedrine!~ I have catching up to do. On so many things. My heart is pounding. Or maybe it feels as if it's beating to a different rhythm. The drugs are affecting me. I told Mark I'm kicking. Cold Turkey. No more Dayquil, I'm not going to score. It makes my heart race, it makes me dry inside, it gives me odd breath, the smell of it, I can smell it. It tastes funny. It lingers inside of me. Heart beating suspended, like maybe an air pocket surrounding it. A bubble. People come and they go, you'll find that's true. It's okay, it's to be expected. Sappy analogy, but it's like seeds airborne... some land, some germinate, some grow, some land, can't squeeze in, or they start to grow and they're chopped down by a footfall. Stomped. Or they grow strong and healthy and you can see them there, growing, soaking up the sun, blowing in the breeze, losing leaves in Autumn, bright new green in Spring. Sappy. Everything's born, everything dies. It will happen to you too. And the people in between? It happens to them too. Do we need? I don't know, it can be nice to have, but it's not a need, no necessity here. They come, they go, it is meant to be. I have catching up to do. I have to study designs, I have to picture new ink on my ankle. I have to buy shaving cream, or gel, or lotion, I have to shave, I have to prepare. I have psyching up to do. If only my heart would stop feeling like I shot up some speed. I've never shot up speed, but I'm guessing it feels something like this. It's racing, I think, my heart. I don't want to take any more drugs. I'm kicking the Dayquil. I don't want the Nyquil either. I want this taste out of my mouth. I showed my book of Saints to Listerine and she loved it. She studied it, she made notes for me to read later, she is going to finish tomorrow. She is worried that her faith is not strong enough, she worries that if a gun were held to her head she would not admit to believing in God, to loving Jesus, if she'd be killed for saying "Yes". She's afraid she's losing her faith. I was touched she told me. And we discussed religious wars, briefly, fleetingly. Hold a gun to my head and ask me what I believe, and maybe in that moment I can tell you. What did he quote about faith? That we can't know we've got it 'til we've lost it? Do I even have that right? I have catching up to do. I won't be sick forever. The Comedy Genius said this is my Paper Anniversary, this one week since I got the sore throat. I said I get a fresh box of tissues. But I no longer need to blow. I have faith in me. I'm always here for me, aren't I? Solid like a rock. Even in a puddle, all quivering. That's my faith. And thou art god. Just waiting for the pseudoephedrine, et al, to leave my bloodstream, then I'll be okay.  (More photos in previous two entries! Go! Look! Now!) Cost of the War in Iraq
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