I know, I know I have absconded.
I eclipsed for weeks.
I am aware and I play the mea culpa.
I know, I left to languish this space for too long, so much so that I do not even remember when was the last time I set foot here in the realm of undisputed that hyperactive parasite that has colonized my neural network.
but I must admit that I had other more important commitments to care: in fact have been too busy to avoid the social apocalypse to take care of my furry garden gnome, but if I find myself today write here, at half past two at night, I'm forced to admit that something did not go the right way.
and that something has to do with the failure of methadone treatment to which I submitted the hamster biturbo.
the dangerous animal is awake and is giving me the serious hard time.
awkward one who is dangerously assuming the appearance of a sleepless night.
the problem is that medicine has failed and the hormone has gone crazy again.
hate to admit it, but because of my lack of sleep is due to deafening clatter of the damn hamsters, I thought I had finally been sedated for a couple of weeks.
but tonight something happened because the teenager who still dwells in the recesses of my person reappear in his worst role, that of the nostalgic moaning.
the fact is that I had some kind of parapsychological experience, a sort of close encounter of the third type, a moment of mystical union with the otherworldly that made me feel suddenly like demi moore in ghost when hacking away at his clay pots unless I missed the joy of touch spiritually orgasmic Patrick Swazi or whatever you call him.
neither more nor less than the manifestation of the ghost of mr. need, right there in front of me, beautiful as the sun, smiling and serene and just when I said never, never see him.
was he, really. throughout his carefree youth.
and I was, in my tired old age.
has spoken little, he joked and I tried, I swear, I desperately tried not to smile too much but I had the facial muscles that I reached out for themselves and the hands that in the absence of other floated in the air wishing you were to suddenly find themselves wielding a cigarette, to have the excuse to stop just to describe larger and larger concentric circles around my person.
nervous when you see, there is little to be done.
and he was there, stiff, comfortable to challenge all my self control not to perform an act absolutely self-destructive and spread his arms like mayonnaise on a slice of hot potato.
that humiliation for me.
I did not even have time to record the presence of mr. need and think that maybe it was just my hallucination, I hope with all my strength, that the hamster is put in motion with the violence of an army of suicide bombers in the brain by reducing the puree.
there was no way that I stop talking, or rather squawking for a quarter of an hour even though I had absolutely nothing to say.
the brain had stopped working.
and has started only now, after four hours because the damn chiendendosi Hindu pantheon with its poisonous load of bad karma wanted again hammering on me representing them mr. need as my mother would re-awaken a plate of rice and cabbage heated.
I mean it was a terrible moment, deciding how to split the chalk with ten days in advance of the prescription or discontinue their antibiotics when fever starts to go down and I was not prepared for this. I had simply not expected.
and now I am scared because the hamster is really angry and I threw the methadone down the pipe of the sink.
someone has a solution?!
I eclipsed for weeks.
I am aware and I play the mea culpa.
I know, I left to languish this space for too long, so much so that I do not even remember when was the last time I set foot here in the realm of undisputed that hyperactive parasite that has colonized my neural network.
but I must admit that I had other more important commitments to care: in fact have been too busy to avoid the social apocalypse to take care of my furry garden gnome, but if I find myself today write here, at half past two at night, I'm forced to admit that something did not go the right way.
and that something has to do with the failure of methadone treatment to which I submitted the hamster biturbo.
the dangerous animal is awake and is giving me the serious hard time.
awkward one who is dangerously assuming the appearance of a sleepless night.
the problem is that medicine has failed and the hormone has gone crazy again.
hate to admit it, but because of my lack of sleep is due to deafening clatter of the damn hamsters, I thought I had finally been sedated for a couple of weeks.
but tonight something happened because the teenager who still dwells in the recesses of my person reappear in his worst role, that of the nostalgic moaning.
the fact is that I had some kind of parapsychological experience, a sort of close encounter of the third type, a moment of mystical union with the otherworldly that made me feel suddenly like demi moore in ghost when hacking away at his clay pots unless I missed the joy of touch spiritually orgasmic Patrick Swazi or whatever you call him.
neither more nor less than the manifestation of the ghost of mr. need, right there in front of me, beautiful as the sun, smiling and serene and just when I said never, never see him.
was he, really. throughout his carefree youth.
and I was, in my tired old age.
has spoken little, he joked and I tried, I swear, I desperately tried not to smile too much but I had the facial muscles that I reached out for themselves and the hands that in the absence of other floated in the air wishing you were to suddenly find themselves wielding a cigarette, to have the excuse to stop just to describe larger and larger concentric circles around my person.
nervous when you see, there is little to be done.
and he was there, stiff, comfortable to challenge all my self control not to perform an act absolutely self-destructive and spread his arms like mayonnaise on a slice of hot potato.
that humiliation for me.
I did not even have time to record the presence of mr. need and think that maybe it was just my hallucination, I hope with all my strength, that the hamster is put in motion with the violence of an army of suicide bombers in the brain by reducing the puree.
there was no way that I stop talking, or rather squawking for a quarter of an hour even though I had absolutely nothing to say.
the brain had stopped working.
and has started only now, after four hours because the damn chiendendosi Hindu pantheon with its poisonous load of bad karma wanted again hammering on me representing them mr. need as my mother would re-awaken a plate of rice and cabbage heated.
I mean it was a terrible moment, deciding how to split the chalk with ten days in advance of the prescription or discontinue their antibiotics when fever starts to go down and I was not prepared for this. I had simply not expected.
and now I am scared because the hamster is really angry and I threw the methadone down the pipe of the sink.
someone has a solution?!
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