Meth Monster

I do well on six hours of sleep. I awoke this morning at 4 a.m., before the coffee grinder operates automatically at 4:30 a.m. each day, and turned it on myself. I plan to write to write two stories before I hop on the treadmill, fueled by two to three cups of coffee by then. Then my public day begins.

The photo of Noah is in my office as I write this, and it never fails to cheer me. The facial expressions and the colors leap off the page.

 

At night, I eat, and eat. I had a club sandwich after arriving home last night from Tim Horton's, after talking with a friend there for 150 minutes. I power through the sandwich, and with a smidgeon of guilt head to the refrigerator. I'm still hungry. My mood is tinged mildly with guilt, but I'm well past it. I'm still hungry.

Ah, the crazy bread we didn't finish. I microwave it, a measure of my hunger, and eat two of the three remaining pieces, dipping them in the remaining marinara sauce.

Say, aren't there the two pieces of Italian sausage I cooked yesterday? My, they look good. I'll have just one, with horseradish sauce, on a fresh bun. Delicieux. Yesterday, I had one with highly-recommended Beer N' Brat mustard, and chopped green olives; not bad.

I polish off the final sausage, cradled in a bun, with more spicy mustard.

I am on my third regimen of steroids to get rid of this poison ivy. This is my third week of it, and I am always hungry, always energetic, generally in a capital mood. This morning, for hopefully the last week, I bump the dosage back up to 40 milligrams for three consecutive days to deliver the knockout punch. Here's hoping it works.

If this goes on much longer, I may by then have launched a new career, or traveled to the Orient, something extreme, exciting, slightly dangerous. I just wanna get rid of this poison ivy.