I don’t know why, but how is mine

A good friend, one of the best, asked why do you just send songs and, errr, emojis. To be fair, I sent ice cream for her birthday because they don’t have a carvel’s ice cream cake symbol so, because my communication modes and devices have a way a slipping quickly into the night, a metaphor for oblivion, before I can express my thoughts.

It wasn’t always this way.

That’s a recent thing due to what can only be called brain trauma. Acquired from what has been referred to as the incident where “they beat you within an inch of your life.”

One more punch to the head, one more upper cut into my solar plexus and maybe I could’ve saved Walter White Memorial the trouble of not “treating” me at all. As I left White Memorial (fitting as they do kill patients there) around 12 hours after I remember driving down the hill to Valley Boulevard in City Terrace, the ER resident/intern blurted out in a cry of conscience, “they thought you were drunk” in response to my question why didn’t you treat me when I came in after realizing they’d let me bleed a long time before a supposed cat scan.

The cat scanned my head. With its paws.

Found nothing abnormal.

Fucking cat.

it wouldn’t matter

where you’re going

Cause where you are

is where I wanna go