2.00 pm a hot scorching Wednesday afternoon
A visit to the Clinical Pharmacology unit: Twenty odd crash carts stacked in one corner of a spotlessly white room.
All the while I wonder, to what extent could, standing in a room where the floors, curtains, walls and sheets – all spot-fucking-less white mess around with your head.
I’ve been spending my days trying to understand and make sense. I also very sincerely try to keep myself from being appalling, vile and second rate.
And as I enter into this phase of my life where I’ve gotten around to feeling largely irresponsible for myself, I can’t help but look around for crash carts.
You have friends and lovers, but do you have crash carts? I think we’d all better start looking..
I sometimes cannot talk to a person without a voice screaming ‘Would you be my crash cart?’ in my head.
On the other hand NOW is when I am ready to say I’ve finally moved in.
With a David Foster Wallace on my bed and a Radiohead on my wall and a flurry of post its finding their way on the doors and cupboards and bathroom walls- I am finally home.
The poster on my wall says:
Fond but not in love
Still kisses with saliva.
