Tissues, tissues, and...tissues?

That is the only thing that defines my existence. I am really sick with a head cold. But what did I expect? The back and forth stress of trains, office, jury, jury, office is a bit much. There's also 40 zillion germs hanging around the vending machines, the backs of chairs, even the computer mouse I used in the lounge. All I have to do is touch and then touch my nose or my eye...and WHAM! I get a cold.



I anxiously await people's reactions next week when I tell them I have to go back for the actual trial. Everyone else is allowed days off except me. I get evil glares if I'm not there, as if I'm going for a Best Performance with Germs Oscar. The court officer did give me a letter stating I had to come back, so that will be my "note", not unlike the sick kid in Heaven Help Us. There's a movie you've haven't seen in a while, huh?



It's moments like this I realize there are choices: the choice to get up and go where the action is (and probably get even sicker) or to sit it out, rest, and take stock of the quiet moments with phlegm filling up my head, not to mention my thoughts. My best days are behind me, anyway. All those people are gone. Am I willing to go out and find some half-assed bunch to share old stories with? No, not at all. I'll cherish the times I have with those who still remember. It's quality, not quantity that has defined this year so far for me.



The headaches, gossip, bullshit, and games aren't going to affect me either in the office or at home. It's the times I could make an exception that are so far away. Yup, I realize I can count my friends on one hand, and it's less than five fingers. But that's ok. I drew that long line in the sand a long time ago. I know what to say, what to do, and how to fight. Having a cold is just a minor setback. It's a basic thing telling me to rest, recover, and sleep. It's not like there's anyone to take care of me. That's a choice, too. I am firmly convinced no one could possibly help me except me. Being weak and lightheaded certainly drives the point home, but like I said, it's a choice.



I'm not about to run myself ragged for anyone who's truly beneath me. I did that in that shithole school I suffered through with sneers and rumors, I even suffered through that hellish rink with Prospect Park's shitty management. I think I need to be kinder with myself. Doing marathons and saving the world is someone else's job. I quit, kiddies. And in doing so, I allow myself to get sick. To take a day off, to rest. And those who challenge that? Well, my famous temper is always at the surface.

Princesses abound, as do bullshit artists, liars, psychopaths, and other personality-disorded vermin. It's part of the world, part of life.



Like grabbing tissues as I sneeze in the dark is. My heaven is filled with bathtubs, and books, and the purr of a kitten perched on a zamboni overlooking a perfect glass-cut ice rink.



When I'm no longer here, that's what people will remember: a cat, a skate, music, a book, a ballet slipper. These are the things that come to mind inbetween cold tablets and nightsweats. At least I have perspective.