10.4.01.
Yellow sticky grey disgusting and it's in my lungs
I was born in a hospital named after a German-Spanish dictator. Pale pale green surrounded me in birth as it does in every hospital ever built and we all wonder why? Failure to thrive. A function of my surroundings, or something deeper inside my bones and blood and sweat (oh, the sweat)? "The Red Sea" is not a metaphor - the blood in our veins is really just seawater, refined by generations of monkeys before us. And though I ate bananas then, I can't abide them now. For eight weeks they failed to make me thrive, and I wish I remembered the looks on their faces. There is a community of people to whom the words "Delta Five-Oh-Eight" have special meaning. (And I have a membership card, but do not attend the meetings. Should I?) Rest up, because if you haven't got your health, what have you got? Well, yes, but sometimes spot-focusing that fresnel with the bastard amber is just more important than preventing the cough cough chorus cacophony. They tested my brother with electrodes and sent my father prematurely to the deer hunters. Do I deserve more pain, or do they deserve less? (What's one thing got to do with another?) Education is key, but what is the focus, I keep asking myself, as I leave my thumb in a splint for focusing too much. According to the best knowledge of 1980, I should have died by third grade, but here I am in sixteenth grade abusing myself physically more than ever before, and actually believing it's a good idea. A spasm of the diaphragm, a twist of the arm, it all comes out in the wash. It makes my mother sad, but so does a lot. The could not kill me with their Delta Five-Oh-Eight. (Time will reveal what other weapons fate will bring to bear.)