I don’t feel well. Everything is sticky, sludgy. I am dumb as heck. Iced coffee isn’t helping—a sure sign I’m sick.
You know its flu. Death is in the house— heat, wetness, dryness, scorching, burning. You see things, awake and dozing. Big colorful strange bad things.
How many people ever died here? Its an old building. Maybe overdoses too. Crack murders. This room has seen things way worse than I have
I see people I didn’t know I cared about. Or remembered. An airline guy was kind to me in Mexico though I was rude. I saw his eyes amused at my panic and then he helped me out of it. I hope he’s OK. I never knew his name.
My head burns. my back is killing me, especially where that guy bashed me. I can’t breathe.
Sure I’m taking Relenza—hope these lungs are still open enough to benefit. Farmers in Uganda said feeding pot to their chickens helped fight bird flu. Making that link nearly did me in. Would Sneeky even want to eat me?
I can’t stop. What if I never post again? My last words are dumb.
You guys keep bugging me about being complacent. You cay I am smug
So what people called me alarmist a year ago? I was right.
That doesn’t make me like the flu deniers.
Its here, in my damn lungs. I dont see any cops here. I dont’ see the state doing anything.
I’m sick of the whole thing. The police arent bothering me. They are dying too.