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Red Hair and Red Eyes
Oct. 1st, 2002 10:22 pmMy stomach hurts. Also my eyes, my head, and the nape of my neck. Moreover, I can't breathe. This is all because some of Patrick's ceiling fell on me. Admittedly, this is not a typical reaction to head trauma, but it was a small piece of plaster about the size of a fingernail.
But wait, Romie. A square centimeter of plastic? I thought you were hard. I thought you were a bad motherfucker who flipped pain the finger and gouged out the eyes of all your opponents. I thought you laid down for nobody, not even mother nature, braved ice storms and bar brawls with the same steely cool.
I'm getting to that.
When the ceiling fell on me, I looked up and found what may or may not be black mold. The same black mold which drove Patrick out of Luckett. The same black mold that's on the government's most wanted list and auto-condemns any building that can't be purged.
My throat hurts. My thought's fuzzy. My ears ring.
I can't believe I've been attacked by a fucking ceiling.
Patrick, of course, has put in a half-dozen maintenence requests, but that's been true for the past two weeks. We have faith that eventually someone will show up with a flashlight and spanner, and at the very least look at it and harumph, although this faith is not founded in anything beyond general good feeling. As I see it, there are two possible eventualities:
1. It gets fixed, and I can walk into this room without attacks of arhythmia, or
2. It doesn't, and Patrick moves.
Two is the interesting one, because the person he'd move in with is me. This is deceptively simple, as all that would change is I'd trade in my bed for something larger. Of course, that forgets a relatively important factor: his mother. His mother complicates things to the point where we'd almost have to get married - by a minister, no less, despite our mutual pagan status. It's something that'll have to happen eventually anyway, because I'm tired of sleeping in a seperate room when we visit his parents, it's just . . . I don't know. I'm stuck between pretending I'm a grown-up and pretending I'm not.
In any case, I can't tell whether I want it to be black mold or whether I don't.
But wait, Romie. A square centimeter of plastic? I thought you were hard. I thought you were a bad motherfucker who flipped pain the finger and gouged out the eyes of all your opponents. I thought you laid down for nobody, not even mother nature, braved ice storms and bar brawls with the same steely cool.
I'm getting to that.
When the ceiling fell on me, I looked up and found what may or may not be black mold. The same black mold which drove Patrick out of Luckett. The same black mold that's on the government's most wanted list and auto-condemns any building that can't be purged.
My throat hurts. My thought's fuzzy. My ears ring.
I can't believe I've been attacked by a fucking ceiling.
Patrick, of course, has put in a half-dozen maintenence requests, but that's been true for the past two weeks. We have faith that eventually someone will show up with a flashlight and spanner, and at the very least look at it and harumph, although this faith is not founded in anything beyond general good feeling. As I see it, there are two possible eventualities:
1. It gets fixed, and I can walk into this room without attacks of arhythmia, or
2. It doesn't, and Patrick moves.
Two is the interesting one, because the person he'd move in with is me. This is deceptively simple, as all that would change is I'd trade in my bed for something larger. Of course, that forgets a relatively important factor: his mother. His mother complicates things to the point where we'd almost have to get married - by a minister, no less, despite our mutual pagan status. It's something that'll have to happen eventually anyway, because I'm tired of sleeping in a seperate room when we visit his parents, it's just . . . I don't know. I'm stuck between pretending I'm a grown-up and pretending I'm not.
In any case, I can't tell whether I want it to be black mold or whether I don't.
