Being sick makes you fat

26 02 2013

It only occurred to me last week when I was out of commission for a number of days and barely even able to haul myself out of bed to pee, let alone exercise in any way.  Now that I’m almost back to normal, this little gut has miraculously appeared on me, as if I’m a few weeks pregnant.  Part of me wants to reject the image-obsessed notion in the gay community and just be happy with the way I am, and I suppose at the very least, I’m not a raging steroid meat-head.  At the same time, it would be nice to not feel fat when I put on my pants.

My friend James says it’s a good thing he exercises regularly or else he’d be fat.  Now I know what he means.


11 01 2011

Fun exercise I wrote in high school.  We picked out two words out of an envelope containing random words and had to work it into the story.  Guess which ones I got?


“How is she?”
“I don’t know… It’s not looking too well…”
“Please tell me she’s going to be alright!”
“I can’t really say.”
“Oh my god!  She’s going to die!”
“Please, calm down, sir.”
“But she’s my baby…”
“We’ll do the best we can for her.”
“Okay, okay…”
Tell you what.  If you need to come in again, for any reason, we’ll give you a discount.”
“Thank you; I appreciate it.  Now please, you have to save her!”
“It’s best you go home.  Stuff like this can take days.”

After that, I start bawling my eyes out.   I sit in the lobby, waiting for any news.  A few people around stare at me, as if I”m the one needing treatment.  Then, I recall the man’s words, telling me to go home.  With Herculean effort, I manage to drag myself back home.

I look at the room where Betsy is kept.  Alone.  Dark.  So miserable.  Eventually, I wake up the next morning realizing I was on the floor of Betsy’s room, tears on a pillow.  I had cried myself to sleep without knowing it.

Immediately, I drive to see Betsy.  The man who I saw yesterday is there.  He comes over to me and put a hand on my shoulder.

“How is she?  Is she going to live?”
He looks down at the ground.
“I don’t do this very often but…”
Wellk, I’m already in tears so there isn’t a point of finishing his sentence.
“Her strings are broken and the frame is completely shattered.  It was impossible to repair her.”
“Can I see her?”

The man leads me to a room in the back.  A pie of what used to be Betsy lays on the floor.

I knelt beside it and sobbed.  All those good times with my Betsy.  The keyboard was still intact, and with that, I played one final number on my dead piano.