(no subject)

When I woke up this morning, a clear thought popped into my consciousness: that there are worse things than death. Arthudo could just wind up paralyzed, and I might be expected to carry him around everywhere, and to spoon-feed him, as well as wipe his ass. When he has me put on the TV for him, I can hear him gasp out, "Louder! Louder!" And then I can wander off for a bit until he needs me to help him piss or shit again. Would I try to live with that? My choice would be a lot tougher to make. After all, there would still be room & board for me, but at what price!

(no subject)

That was delicious! And fun. How long had it been since I had an ice cream float? Bluebell Strawberry Ice Cream and Big Red soda. Did I ever make one since Teri died? That's an odd division point, perhaps. I don't think there is a direct connection between her death and the loss of strawberry floats from my diet, but ... I don't think I made one in these 19 years, till now. Just another thing that slipped out of my life.

Living in this limbo period, unsure of existence itself, with Arthudo still unconscious in intensive care for all I know, I felt the urge today to go to my box of Old Journal memo pads from the 1990s. There's not a lot of happiness in those pages. That is why I have always been rather averse to going through that material. However, this seemed as good a time as any to revisit those old days of home life. This might even be the last chance.

The box of memo pads is on a high shelf in the closet, and I just reached up and picked one at random out of the old shoe-box, something on top. From 1999. I was disappointed at first. I was hoping for something from the early nineties, maybe from '93 to '95. I flipped it open, took a look, and the second journal entry convinced me to stick with this one. In that entry, I quoted from a phone call: "Bobby, it's mommy!" Just the kind of thing I needed.

(no subject)

A car parked across the street that seemed official-looking to me, having on its door a large decal that might have been badge-like. I slipped on my crocs and prepared to meet him at the door, as my stomach is doing flip-flops. I was thinking that it might be a police official come to inform me that Arthudo is dead. It turns out to be a pizza-delivery guy or some sort of take-out.