An Introspective Retrospective of a Prospective Genius

Well, folks, this blog has run its course and come to its end. This fucker's dead. I'm a new Michael, it's time for a new blog.

Dear diary, sad again, wishing I could talk, but more importantly, wishing that if I could talk I sounded like Johnny Depp. My head hurts. I think I'll read...

I wrote the above so that this story would be totally TRUE.

So, today I went to the horse track with Celeste and Sarah (not Sara). I'd never been to the track, I felt like I should have a cigarette and a gin, desperately clutching my race tickets. It really was a lot of fun, despite my total lack of ability to pick a winner.

I've been kind of nervous about... everything lately. Last week I ended up getting not one, but TWO trachs installed. They tried another "custom" trach on Monday which ended up really irritating my throat and being generally awful, so I had to get a new one (which is actually an old one, the one I LIKE) installed in the e.r. on Thursday evening. Unfortunately, my throat is still irritated, so even my GOOD trach feels bad right now. If Demerol never wore off this wouldn't be bad, but it does, so it is. Still, though I'm often nervous and uncomfortable, I keep going and doing things that scare me. I went to the track, I didn't die, I had some fun. I wouldn't have gone a year ago.

What will become of me when I'm all poured out...?

I really wish I could know. I feel like it won't be good. I think I'm probably looking at Hell or nothingness, and I don't want either one. Granted, I probably deserve both, but I definitely don't welcome them. I hope I read this later and feel ridiculous. I hope I see I'm a ridiculous emo philosophical dumb-fuck. How can I be so completely confident in myself and hate myself all at once?

THIS, my friends, is the length to which I'm willing to go for independence...

So, at first this will seem crazy, awkward and crazy, but here’s the deal… I’m physically disabled with Spinal Muscular Atrophy, thus I can pretty much only move my thumb, my eyes and my mouth, but I can’t talk because I have a trach (tube in my throat). Given the previous, I need people to do just about everything for me. Also, I’m incredibly lazy. That being said, I need someone to drop by and give me a bath every-day. See, I’m trying to live independently, but a fellow can’t be independent without baths. Therefore, I need someone smart and reliable to come in, give me a nice bath in the early afternoon or evening and get me back to my room, clothed and everything, without killing me. I’m only 60 pounds and the entire process shouldn’t take more than an hour. For this, I’ll pay $100 per week. Obviously, whoever I hire will be trained to do this before actually doing it.

Sure, it’s a little bizarre and a little awkward, but life is a little bizarre and a little awkward.

Here’s a bit about me: http://www.assistiveware.com/michael.php

and

http://www.myspace.com/wiredgoth

Salary: $100 per week.

Location: Tampa, FL The Palma Ceia area

Please contact me for further details and with specific questions. AIM users can also reach me at: Letham21

That's right, it's totally a fucking craigslist ad.

Recently I've been making lots of changes. I've hired some new assistants, I already have one of them trained to take me out after just a week. It's kind of a record. It was during this training process that something... interesting happened.

Last Thursday I decided to have the new assistant, her name's Sarah, take me for dinner and a tattoo in Ybor. Yes, tattoo number seven. It was our first outing alone, other times my Sara came with us. So, Thursday we get out of the house and into the van safe and sound. The drive over is uneventful, absolutely no trouble. We arrive, we park, she unloads the BiPap and chair. Oddly, though, a few seconds after getting into my chair, the BiPap shuts off. Sarah jiggles some things and it comes back on. I figure it's just a fluke, chords get loose. I decide to keep going, that I'm a paranoid wuss if I don't go. Walking to dinner it shuts off a few times, but a little jiggling and it keeps coming back. Dinner's really fun though and I still want my tattoo, so we press on. After this, I don't remember much, my short-term memory didn't make it. Apparently, some time after the tattoo the BiPap decided to go out and wouldn't come back on. I couldn't breathe, passed out, heroically wet myself, as is the case in such circumstances. Sarah was quite smart, she called my Sara and paramedics. She even breathed into my trach tube, which is fucking impressive. I don't really remember anything until I got home. I know the BiPap came back on, I know I didn't die, and I know I have a new tattoo!



So, what exactly is it? It's a French alchemical symbol for air...

Drink up baby, stay up all night
With the things you could do
You won't but you might
The potential you'll be that you'll never see
The promises you'll only make
Drink up with me now
And forget all about the pressure of days
Do what I say and I'll make you okay
And drive them away
The images stuck in your head

The people you you've been before
That you don't want around around anymore
That push and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still

Drink up baby, look at the stars
I'll kiss you again between the bars
Where I'm seeing you there with your hands in the air
Waiting to finally be caught
Drink up one more time and I'll make you mine
Keep you apart, deep in my heart
Separate from the rest, where I like you the best
And keep the things you forgot

The people you've been before
That you don't want around anymore
That push and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still

So, there's a little balloon inside my trach which blocks air from blowing out of my nose and mouth. Well, yesterday this balloon decided to tear and eventually pop. Basically, I spent the day in the e.r. getting air pumped into my cuff every minute or so until the ENT arrived. Honestly, I was pretty brave for most of it. I could breathe fine so long as someone kept refilling the cuff. Unfortunately, after the cuff blew completely and air started flying out of my nose and mouth, I got reacquainted with the special terror of unexpected trach failure. Amazingly, about thirty seconds after this happened, the doctor showed up with his nurse to hit me with a shot of morphine and swap out the trach. I've never been happier to have the hardware in my throat ripped out and replaced. I like to think that God watches out for me, which is why the doctor showed up at that exact moment, yet I also can't help but wonder if He's just fucking with me. Trying to see just how much I can take before I snap. Sometimes, especially lately, I feel pretty close. Life is so fragile and so valuable. I'm so sick of not living it on my terms. Am I wrong to want the things that I want? I don't think so. I keep trying, I'm just scared of failing, and tired of being scared.

I'm feeling very Quentin Compson lately. I can feel time moving. I feel it pressing against me, almost crushing me. Lists of things to do, blocks of time allotted for everything. I feel like Tender Branson with his day planner. Days get scheduled and mapped out, every activity, every task. If I'm doing one thing, it just means I'm not doing something else. I grow tired of all the schedules, and figuring other people's schedules into mine. Mine... that's kind of amusing. My schedule mainly exists so that I don't fuck up everybody else's schedule. My time is rarely my time. I feel the weight of every gear in every clock, and I hate them so,

1: I was a BASTARD Tuesday. That won't happen again.

2: I'm completely sated on the hockey experience.

3: God help me, I like Blackhawk Down.

4: I need to be truly brave.

5: I love a woman and at the end of the day, she matters most to me.