Not in the near future, even though this cold/flu has done me in, but, you know, when the time comes. After all, a girl can’t die until she finally runs into Little Old Kleinheider at a bar where he introduces her to his husband, Harold Ford Jr., and she has to have a drink because she both can’t imagine anything more perfect and never saw that coming.
I keep having this dream that Sarcastro and the Butcher have created a pill that will cure me of this cold/flu. The only drawback is that it gives me incredibly noisy, nonstop farts, which they think is hilarious. I wake up from this dream realizing that I’m choking on my own innards; that’s the noise. Even now, I can do it, if I tilt my head forward enough, I can’t breathe.
I think that’s why I get more rested when I sleep on the couch–I’m sitting almost upright and everything stays open.
Anyway, that’s how I go. I either drown or suffocate in my own self.
I’ve had pneumonia six times, all before I was 25, and every time I get a chest x-ray done, the doctors tell me I have to quit smoking because my lungs are shot. I don’t smoke. There’s nothing to quit.
I hope to be old when I go, but if I go naturally, I bet it’s because I can’t breathe.