sometimes the best present of all is a helping hand

so it's my last sunday in the ole states united for awhile. the past few weeks at home have been good and family. i've had way too many doctor's visits, so it will be nice to leave and to think of my health as a distant vague idea rather than something that could drag me down and eventually really give me the old fuck over if I keep disregarding it.

but of course maybe it already has a few times.

i feel near invincible in some ways, though. for all my vaccinations.

you can give me your yellow-fevered, hepatitis-ed, typhoided, malarialed beings as company if you wish. and i may play Judas to your Dr. Jesús.

speaking of the man's birthday, i spent the last few hours of christmas in a shitty suburb karaoke bar surrounded by people whom i would have loved to piss off if i had had more than one beer in that place. in any case, i listened to 50-cent's 'birthday' and i thought of the christians' Saviour as just a shorty in the manger, being serenaded by 50-cent himself.

quite a powerful multicultural image.

my new year's eve was filled with tamed revery. my friend smoked me of his smoke that seemed to be laced in some way. i'm not sure what it was, though, save energizing. i think he got it from one of his relatives and said it was the kind of weed parents smoke. parental marijuana. i threw up stomach acid and potato peels later for a good ten minutes and he said it sounded like i couldn't breathe.

suppose i'm not quite cut out yet to be any sort of a parent.

and those type of moments are antithetical to the ones in which i feel invincible. i can take on nearly any third-world disease now but i can't make it through my twenty-second fucking new year's without throwing up.

funny thing, mr. gregory never even stuck his nervous being around on new year's. i wonder what he's been up to-most likely fumbling around in his hope chest in infinitesimal failure. i wonder if he'll find out that what he's looking for has never even been in there...

* * * * *

some sort of sour melancholy is starting to grow like mold on the outer boundaries of my consciousness. i'm not sure for what it's there, or even if it's singular.

i'm really anxious about leaving, in a way. and about alexandra. even though i feel like i do it time and again, i know i do have reservations about throwing myself into situations where i may never even figure out W.T.F. is going on.

the best thing for me to do in those types of situations is to just keep smoking cigarettes.