The old bastard is back, sneaked up quietly and suddenly last night.
Here I am again. Did you miss me? Did you think I would stay away while you kept yourself busy with physiotherapy and all this silly walking around the garden, slowly building up stamina every day?
It looked like a nice old game for a while. You had me in stitches.
Well, here is the thing. I want it now. Your energy, attention, your ridiculous concept of health and recovery. Hand it over. There's a good girl.
Remember: I am your chronic disease. We are buddies forever.
Dole out the cortisone for all you want, go on, you do that now, but it will just patch things up, poorly and let's not forget my special treats. Yes, clever girl, the side effects.
I rule supreme."
No. I hate hearing this.ReplyDelete
Oh Sabine, this is such sad news. I could type a string of expletives here, and I know you know what it would sound like.ReplyDelete
No, he doesn't rule supreme. He needs you, otherwise he's a chimera. Mainly he's an irritant, a parasite, a bad wind, a piece of music out of tune, Pol Pot's pot de chambre, lacking dignity. He'll never be willingly taken on a date, he is sexually useless, ever held in contempt. When he's denied your nervous system he must sleep where he may, typically in defunct gent's lavatories.ReplyDelete
He is in fact Donald Trump's myrmidon.
Aaack! I hate that old bastard.ReplyDelete
I want him to leave you. I want him to leave you in peace. With all my heart. Sending love. Remembering all the light we cannot see.ReplyDelete
Oh dear, I am sorry. May you find relief or it find you. Soon.ReplyDelete