Feel like I just climbed a mountain and dodged a bullet at the same time. – Barker Ajax
So, anyway, can’t explain why I was reading an eight-year-old New Yorker. Still pretty sick.
But dealable after a week or so. No worse than going cold turkey on a good addiction, like weed or speed.
I felt like crap, tested positive. Doctor says, “treat it like a cold and call me if he experiences chest pains.”
Toughest part at first was not kissing each other. Really. Some habits are hard to break.
She says we don’t kiss as much as we used to do; I say my lips are chapped with all the kissing we do all the time.
Kiss, kiss, kiss.
Wife cranks up the chocolate milkshake machine and I go to sleep for a couple of days.
Finally came to just in time to help out with the dogs and she goes straight downhill and tests negative. Twice.
She got sicker and sicker. Boy, is she ever miserable.
I feel weirdly woozy. Which is not entirely unpleasant.
There’ll be a moment now where you might forget you’re sick, then not so much.
Ebb and flow.
Oh, yeah. Taking my chocolate ice cream in solid form again.
Will know more after first trip to the mail box.
Found Covid Poem
I used to open the drawer
when I still had my eyes closed,
and reach in,
and I’d take three pills
without knowing what they were.
And then there was a sense of adventure.
If they were three black bombers,
I’d probably die of a heart attack;
if they were three Quaaludes,
I’d probably be a puddle on the floor.
And, to kill the time
until I found out what I’d taken,
I would have a fix,
and smoke a joint,
and turn on the television,
where you could dimly see
the Road Runner
through the snowstorm.
– words by and/or about Edward St. Aubyn
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/06/02/inheritance
