Too many greyhounds at the Hipster Bar (where I made myself wildly popular by spinning Prince and MM’s Jesus Christ Was An Only Child on the jukebox, right out of the gate!) turned into two days of violent, pointless retching and so now I am forced to question, in addition to the wisdom of howevermany vodka-grapefruits, the integrity of the pollo con mole I had for dinner at upscale mexican restaurant Mi Cocina just before. I am weak and shaky, every muscle in my body is sore, my stomach is burning and aching, I am running out both ends and I’m tremendously exhausted.
Which is at least partially why it’s taking me a week to finish the last 15 pages of Trickster; the truth is I don’t want it to be over. I just received Susan Orlean’s The Orchid Thief, a likely choice since I am jamming on nonfiction and in love with the showy, temperamental feline plants these days. Still, I can’t let Hyde’s book go.
This afternoon I am curled up on the couch, sipping lukewarm gatorade and watching season 1 of No Reservations, the only part of cable that I miss. It’s nice to be untethered from work, but not under such circumstances; I’d vastly prefer 5 hours by the pool to sweating out a rotavirus in the cool semidarkness of my apartment.
