Friday night was awful. Just awful. It was the worst Friday night I’ve ever had. It’s all my fault, of course. It’s always my fault when I eat something I haven’t eaten in forever and get sick from it. I could’ve kicked myself in the ass but I was too sick.

Watercolor on paper. Copyright 2012 Totsymae
I had this bright idea to eat pizza, of all things. Of course, feeling like I was feeling, I thought I was gonna die. I always think I’m gonna die when pain strikes. My southern tendencies don’t take too well to things that hurt and I really don’t have time to be sitting around with no stomach ache. I mean, the incovenience of it all.
So. Because I’m a southern drama queen, mentally only, meaning, I don’t go out dramatizing myself in the streets…unless you count this as doing that…Anyway, you know what I’m saying. I laid up, suffering in silence and doing what I do when I’m in pain. Thinking of dumb shit like, Damn, I should’ve cut the grass. Folk’ll be gathering at the house with my grass uncut should I expire from here…I sure hope I don’t expire sitting on the toilet…Damn Totsy, you gonna let some pizza land the last blow with you? I could see my autopsy report in the midst of my pain. Cause of death: Some damn pizza.
It got me to thinking over the dumbest ways folks leave away from here. Some years back, I was in the country when I was a married woman. The country’s where The Ex is from. If you know anything about the country, you know street lights are far and few but I don’t think that had anything to do with it. That’s just my way of saying he’s countryer than me. Well, it was early and this woman the in-laws knew was on her way some place. She stops for her a sausage biscuit at some restaurant. Probably McDonald’s. Well, she got to driving along and the biscuit fell to the floorboard. She’s still driving along and decides to reach down to retrieve that biscuit, ran off the damn road and killed herself. All I could think was, That must’ve been one helluva biscuit.
Recently, right here in my very own city, we’ve been having a rash of accidents of folk driving on the wrong side of the road. Folks dying all over the place ’cause their minds ain’t right to be behind no wheel. This last woman who died for that very reason was a nurse or some kinda hospital worker. Got herself a hold of that Propofol, the same stuff that killed Michael Jackson, and call herself gonna drive somewhere. I reckon she was going home but I be damn if she made it there or anywhere. I don’t know if this sounds bad or not but I was relieved she only killed herself in this accident. The news folk and such were talking about the highway or something or another. Trying to blame the road ’til the autopsy folk let them know she was drugged up on surgery medicine. I just had to shake my head at that one.
I know I’d never expire from reaching for no sausage biscuit while driving or taking Propofol. I don’t eat sausage no how and I can’t afford Conrad Murray. I would like to leave away from here in style though. You know, spread out in bed looking and smelling good. ‘Course, death may not choose a spot for my convenience. It ain’t like I can say, “Come on. I’m ready now.” Like I’d ever say that anyhow. I do know I don’t wanna be sitting at no table eating like some greedy ass ’cause knowing me, I’d be on my second helping if the food was good. Besides, what the hell I look like dying while I’m in the middle of chewing? That ain’t cute. ‘Course if I’m old as hell, I probably wouldn’t be cute no more no how. I’d probably be writing or painting in my studio and sucking on apple sauce with my teeth soaking in a glass.
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