I've been writing a lot lately. Judging by the frequency of my blog postings, you would never know it. January 2006. Let's begin. I’ve been working a lot. I'm on my "grizzly" or as the Negroes say "I'm on my grind". I've kinda been in a surreal, funky mind state lately. I don’t think I do things that help it, either.
Walking Pneumonia. That was the diagnosis from Cynthia. Cynthia is a nurse at the General Hospital. I met her in the coffee shop in the neighborhood. I like her. Not in “that way”, but I like her. We had this real decent talk about Ntozake Shange and Janis Joplin one afternoon. During our conversation, the specter of my perpetual cough reared its fucking ugly head. She told me I should come by the hospital where she works. I told her I didn’t have insurance. She said I shouldn’t worry about such formalities and come anyway. Insurance be damned……I was on my way.
I sat in an ultra-sterile room with a thermometer in mouth. She got a doctor to give me a once over. Verdict? Fucking Walking Pneumonia.
“Great God!” I thought. I could die any minute and I still haven’t finished my trilogy of films or my memoirs. Complete fuckery. When you’re diagnosed with some bullshit like Pneumonia, the first thing you do is think of all the worthless shit in your life that doesn’t matter. First thing that sprang to mind was going to my job and smacking the shit out of my boss for handing me those worthless mule scraps he calls a “paycheck” every week. The next thing I thought of was how pompous the guy in the health food store acts when I go in there. You go in to buy vitamins and this muthafucker acts like he’s giving you the bread and body of Christ. He hardly speaks and rarely makes eye contact. When he does happen to make eye contact, his glances always end in a real feminine roll of the eyes. God, he’s a bitch. But I have the perfect remedy for that: his ass needs a good swift kicking. The irony of it is: I’m in the store to buy vitamins to help prevent illnesses such as this and this asshole tries to make a simple transaction as painful as possible.
God, he’s a bitch.
“Ziti, are you okay?” Cynthia looked at me with concern, like maybe my thoughts took me somewhere else. They did. I like Cynthia. She has a voice like velvet, but it’s not trampy. When most women try to project sensuality through their voice, they miss the allure they aim for. They come off sounding more like the old high school hooker who let everyone hit, because she has a broken sense of her sexuality. Their seduction is lost using a false assertion.
That’s not Cynthia.
Her words are intelligent and direct without being nerdy. She is inviting without being overly flirty. Maybe the real reason I think she’s cool, is that she has the same name as a girl in a Prince song? Cynthia Rose. I like her---but not in “that way”.
She hands me a plastic bag filled with all kinds of drugs. Antibiotics. Cough Killers. Fever reducers. Wheeze extractors. Anything that can be associated with the monster can be terminated with the assorted drugs in the bag. She is my new messiah.
I never noticed before, but Cynthia has one of the world’s most roundest asses I ever seen. No bullshit. Her ass protrudes with circles of Bronx boriqua mixed with a dash of Carolina Hood Honey. It’s amazing. No I mean it……..it’s fucking amazing. In those white nurses pants her ass looks like two soccer ba----
“GOTT DAMMIT ZITI! GET A HOLD OF YERSELF!” I say to myself.
Did I have the drugs yet? Or where the effects of the illness creeping and crawling up to my brain, causing me to think sick, twisted and convoluted thoughts? I’m a non-drinker. I don’t eat meat. Anything outside of Excedrin makes me feel “loopy”. I feel hot. She offers me one of those sawed off cans of ginger ale that all hospitals seem to stock pile in their staff refrigerators. I must really be hot, because outside of the beverage being cold, it tastes like a fine mixture of old Sprite, piss and penicillin. I drink it.
God bless you Cynthia.
Walking Pneumonia. That was the diagnosis from Cynthia. Cynthia is a nurse at the General Hospital. I met her in the coffee shop in the neighborhood. I like her. Not in “that way”, but I like her. We had this real decent talk about Ntozake Shange and Janis Joplin one afternoon. During our conversation, the specter of my perpetual cough reared its fucking ugly head. She told me I should come by the hospital where she works. I told her I didn’t have insurance. She said I shouldn’t worry about such formalities and come anyway. Insurance be damned……I was on my way.
I sat in an ultra-sterile room with a thermometer in mouth. She got a doctor to give me a once over. Verdict? Fucking Walking Pneumonia.
“Great God!” I thought. I could die any minute and I still haven’t finished my trilogy of films or my memoirs. Complete fuckery. When you’re diagnosed with some bullshit like Pneumonia, the first thing you do is think of all the worthless shit in your life that doesn’t matter. First thing that sprang to mind was going to my job and smacking the shit out of my boss for handing me those worthless mule scraps he calls a “paycheck” every week. The next thing I thought of was how pompous the guy in the health food store acts when I go in there. You go in to buy vitamins and this muthafucker acts like he’s giving you the bread and body of Christ. He hardly speaks and rarely makes eye contact. When he does happen to make eye contact, his glances always end in a real feminine roll of the eyes. God, he’s a bitch. But I have the perfect remedy for that: his ass needs a good swift kicking. The irony of it is: I’m in the store to buy vitamins to help prevent illnesses such as this and this asshole tries to make a simple transaction as painful as possible.
God, he’s a bitch.
“Ziti, are you okay?” Cynthia looked at me with concern, like maybe my thoughts took me somewhere else. They did. I like Cynthia. She has a voice like velvet, but it’s not trampy. When most women try to project sensuality through their voice, they miss the allure they aim for. They come off sounding more like the old high school hooker who let everyone hit, because she has a broken sense of her sexuality. Their seduction is lost using a false assertion.
That’s not Cynthia.
Her words are intelligent and direct without being nerdy. She is inviting without being overly flirty. Maybe the real reason I think she’s cool, is that she has the same name as a girl in a Prince song? Cynthia Rose. I like her---but not in “that way”.
She hands me a plastic bag filled with all kinds of drugs. Antibiotics. Cough Killers. Fever reducers. Wheeze extractors. Anything that can be associated with the monster can be terminated with the assorted drugs in the bag. She is my new messiah.
I never noticed before, but Cynthia has one of the world’s most roundest asses I ever seen. No bullshit. Her ass protrudes with circles of Bronx boriqua mixed with a dash of Carolina Hood Honey. It’s amazing. No I mean it……..it’s fucking amazing. In those white nurses pants her ass looks like two soccer ba----
“GOTT DAMMIT ZITI! GET A HOLD OF YERSELF!” I say to myself.
Did I have the drugs yet? Or where the effects of the illness creeping and crawling up to my brain, causing me to think sick, twisted and convoluted thoughts? I’m a non-drinker. I don’t eat meat. Anything outside of Excedrin makes me feel “loopy”. I feel hot. She offers me one of those sawed off cans of ginger ale that all hospitals seem to stock pile in their staff refrigerators. I must really be hot, because outside of the beverage being cold, it tastes like a fine mixture of old Sprite, piss and penicillin. I drink it.
God bless you Cynthia.
*excerpt taken from the Zeemetry Manifesto
