Endless Paris Nights (and the Search for Meds)

The next night, she accompanied me to a Bal Musette. Dramatic on stage, she was sweet and simple anywhere else.  But I felt as if I were hiding her somehow in all the out of the way working class bars.  And so late, after everything else, we went to the Closerie des Lilas and had an expensive bottle of wine.  The weather was pleasant.  There seemed no end to it all. 


I will confess to a great illness of late.  It has not wanted to let me go.  Either that, or I have gotten a second disease.  For the past few days, I've been certain these were my last.  I could not stand to swallow and the glands and muscles on the right side of my neck were swollen and tender.  Psychologically, I prepared for the end.  Throat cancer.  I said nothing to anybody about this and have carried on as if all were fine, staunch at my job, collapsed alone.  


I am happy to report that I am getting better.  The fever has gone and I can swallow again.  I did not quit drinking whiskey nor repent of my new sins, and of that I brag.  It is good to know that I am living in a manner of which I do not wish to repent.  


But the gas is still off and the house cool and unpleasantly damp.  A storm moved through tonight with heavy rains.  A shoot cancelled because of it.  But I was O.K.  I am tired and near dead with fatigue.  I do not sleep enough, though I have time.  Something mechanical is broken.  If I can find some pills laying around in a bathroom drawer, I will take something to help me sleep tonight.  I've had to cancel an early morning doctor's appointment so that I can wait for the motherfuckers from the gas company.  I was given a six hour window of when they might arrive.  No use arguing with the girl on the phone, of course.  She is getting fucked by the gas company worse than I am, I'm sure.  


Tomorrow there will be hot water and heat and a working stove.  I'll be luxuriating once again.  Without throat cancer, I suppose.  


I'll be cheerier.  You'll see.  


Now to search for meds.