#i have asthma and my immune system is shit

[ghostcroissant]

I feel like I'm suffocating. Literally I feel like I am drowning. Walking down the hall to my bathroom feels like a marathon and I'm gasping for air at the end of it. Breathing is getting harder as the days progress but other symptoms are getting better-ish. I dont want to go to the ER because I feel like I'm overreacting. Like, what if my anxiety about not being able to breathe right is causing me to breathe even more wrong? It's not worth taking away resources from someone who is actually sick.

Please, for the love of God, though, wear a mask. When you're sick, if you can please STAY HOME. If you absolutely have to leave, please just wear a mask. Covid isn't gone.

[whelpimnauthuman]

Realizing I might have gotten POTS because of Covid and.

[infiniteglitterfall]

know someone who enjoys horror stories? share this one! it's true!

hahahahahahahahahaha aarrggghhhhhhhhhh 3,000,000 deaths due to COVID-19 last year. Globally. Three million. Case rates higher than 90% of the rest of the pandemic. The reason people are still worried about COVID is because it has a way of quietly fucking up your body. And the risk is cumulative.

I'm going to say that again: the risk is cumulative.

It's not just that a lot of people get bad long-term effects from it. One in seven or so? Enough that it's kind of the Russian Roulette of diseases. It's also that the more times you get it, the higher that risk becomes. Like if each time you survived Russian Roulette, the empty chamber was removed from the gun entirely. The worst part is that, psychologically, we have the absolute opposite reaction. If we survive something with no ill effects, we assume it's pretty safe. It is really, really hard to override that sense of, "Ok, well, I got it and now I probably have a lot of immunity and also it wasn't that bad." It is not a respiratory disease. Airborne, yes. Respiratory disease, no: not a cold, not a flu, not RSV.

Like measles (or maybe chickenpox?), it starts with respiratory symptoms. And then it moves to other parts of your body. It seems to target the lungs, the digestive system, the heart, and the brain the most.

It also hits the immune system really hard - a lot of people are suddenly more susceptible to completely unrelated viruses. People get brain fog, migraines, forget things they used to know.

(I really, really hate that it can cross the blood-brain barrier. NOTHING SHOULD EVER CROSS THE BLOOD-BRAIN BARRIER IT IS THERE FOR A REASON.) Anecdotal examples of this shit are horrifying. I've seen people talk about coworkers who've had COVID five or more times, and now their work... just often doesn't make sense? They send emails that say things like, "Sorry, I didn't mean Los Angeles, I meant Los Angeles."

Or they insist they've never heard of some project that they were actually in charge of a year or two before.

Or their work is just kind of falling apart, and they don't seem to be aware of it.

People talk about how they don't want to get the person in trouble, so their team just works around it. Or they describe neighbors and relatives who had COVID repeatedly, were nearly hospitalized, talked about how incredibly sick they felt at the time... and now swear they've only had it once and it wasn't bad, they barely even noticed it.

(As someone who lived with severe dissociation for most of my life, this is a genuinely terrifying idea to me. I've already spent my whole life being like, "but what if I told them that already? but what if I did do that? what if that did happen to me and I just don't remember?") One of its known effects in the brain is to increase impulsivity and risk-taking, which is real fucking convenient honestly. What a fantastic fucking mutation. So happy for it on that one. Yes, please make it seem less important to wear a mask and get vaccinated. I'm not screaming internally at all now.

I saw a tweet from someone last year whose family hadn't had COVID yet, who were still masking in public, including school.

She said that her son was no kind of an athlete. Solidly bottom middle of the pack in gym.

And suddenly, this year, he was absolutely blowing past all the other kids who had to run the mile. He wasn't running any faster. His times weren't fantastic or anything. It's just that the rest of the kids were worse than him now. For some reason. I think about that a lot. (Like my incredibly active six-year-old getting a cold, and suddenly developing post-viral asthma that looked like pneumonia.

He went back to school the day before yesterday, after being home for a month and using preventative inhalers for almost week.

He told me that it was GREAT - except that he couldn't run as much at recess, because he immediately got really tired. Like how I went outside with him to do some yard work and felt like my body couldn't figure out how to increase breathing and heart rate.

I wasn't physically out of breath, but I felt like I was out of breath. That COVID feeling people describe, of "I'm not getting enough air." Except that I didn't have that problem when I had COVID.) Some people don't observe any long (or medium) term side effects after they have it.

But researchers have found viral reservoirs of COVID-19 in everyone they've studied who had it.

It just seems to hang out, dormant, for... well, longer than we've had an opportunity to observe it, so far.

(I definitely watched that literal horror movie. I think that's an entire genre. The alien dormant under ice in the Arctic.)

(oh hey I don't like that either!!!!!!!!!) All of which is to explain why we should still care about avoiding it, and how it manages to still cause excess deaths. Measuring excess deaths has been a standard tool in public health for a long time.

We know how many people usually die from all different causes, every year. So we can tell if, for example, deaths from heart disease have gone way up in the past three years, and look for reasons. Those are excess deaths: deaths that, four years ago, would not have happened. During the pandemic, excess death rates have been a really important tool. For all sorts of reasons. Like, sometimes people die from COVID without ever getting tested, and the official cause is listed as something else because nobody knows they had COVID. But also, people are dying from cardiovascular illness much younger now.

People are having strokes and heart attacks younger, and more often, than they did before the pandemic started. COVID causes a lot of problems. And some of those problems kill people. And some of them make it easier for other things to kill us. Lung damage from COVID leading to lungs collapsing, or to pneumonia, or to a pulmonary embolism, for example. The Economist built a machine-learning model with a 95% confidence interval that gauges excess death statistics around the world, to tell them what the true toll of the ongoing COVID pandemic has been so far.

Total excess deaths globally in 2023: Three million.

3,000,000.

Official COVID-19 deaths globally so far: Seven million. 7,000,000. Total excess deaths during COVID so far: Thirty-five point two million. 35,200,000.

Five times as many.

That's bad. I don't like that at all. I'm glad last year was less than a tenth of that. I'm not particularly confident about that continuing, though, because last year we started a period of really high COVID transmission. Case rates higher than 90% of the rest of the pandemic. Here's their data, and charts you can play with, and links to detailed information on how they did all of this:

Here's a non-paywalled link to it:

https://archive.vn/2024.01.26-012536/https://www.economist.com/graphic-detail/coronavirus-excess-deaths-estimates

Oh: here's a link to where you can buy comfy, effective N95 masks in all sizes:

Those ones are about a buck each after shipping - about $30 for a box of 30. They also have sample packs for a dollar, so you can try a couple of different sizes and styles.

You can wear an N95 mask for about 40 total hours before the effectiveness really drops, so that's like a dollar for a week of wear.

They're also family-owned and have cat-shaped masks and I really love them. These ones are cuter and in a much wider range of colors, prints, and styles, but they're also more expensive; they range from $1.80 to $3 for a mask. ($18-$30 for a box of ten.)

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | Chapter 5

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 5: Fever

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?

Word Count: 8.7k+

Content / Warnings: Reader POV, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship and related flashbacks, food, viral infection (influenza), respiratory infection, hospitalization, asthma, inhaler, bb girl gets sick, frankie gets to mother hen a little, fever dream, alcohol, bar, heavy angst, not a universe where covid-19 existed, manipulation

Notes: Hey, buddy. If there are any inaccuracies in the realm of medical science and hospitals and all that jazz, let's collectively ignore that, ok? Perfect. Thank you for reading!!!

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

Yesterday afternoon, after Emmaleigh returned from school, she complained that her whole body hurt. Alarm bells went off in your head. You studied her face and noticed that her cheeks were rosy and she looked dazed. 

“Are you feeling ok?” you asked, pressing the back of your hand to her hot, sweaty forehead. A grimace rolled across your face, “You’re burning up, Em.”

She barely mumbled a response, then trudged over to the couch and laid down. 

The boys were soon to join her, getting lethargic as their temperatures skyrocketed. All three Howard children took turns coughing their sickness into the air. You did your best to stay away from their germs while you accommodated them, but should have known that the future was already percolating in your immune system. 

“I’ll work from home tomorrow,” Marla told you when she got home, “I just hope they didn’t get you sick.”

Well, guess what?

They got you fucking sick. 

It started with small things: a tight soreness in your throat, aches shooting from deep within your muscles like you did a full body workout the day before. 

When Frankie walked through the front door, he took one look at you in your blanket cocoon on the couch, then at the TV playing King of the Hill, and asked, “What’s wrong?” 

“I think my kids got me sick,” you informed him. The words tickled. A coughing fit erupted in from your chest. 

His boots clunked to the floor, one at a time, as he probed, “You ok?”

“I’m fine,” you shook your head, then swallowed the thickness in your throat. 

“Are you sure?” he took a few steps towards you, narrowing his gaze, “You look like shit.”

“Aww, you’re so sweet,” you deadpanned. 

He approached the couch, brought the back of his hand to your forehead, and grumbled, “You feel warm.” 

“Oh my god. I’m fine,” you groaned, pulling the blanket over your head, “Go away before I get you sick.” 

Frankie sighed and retreated into his bedroom. 

When you woke up this morning, the sky outside was still dark. You were still on the couch, wrapped up in your blanket. A layer of sweat lined your skin, but you shivered from the perceived cold. 

It felt like a fucking Mack truck hit you. 

The first deep morning breath to stretch your lungs caused them to seize. A fit of coughs ripped your body in half. You sat up, struggling to draw breath between each new wave of coughing. 

Frankie wobbled into the living room, wearing just a pair of navy blue boxers, his hair all sleep-mussed, as he sat down beside you and smoothed his palm against your back. His groggy morning voice rumbled from his throat, “You ok?” 

Your entire respiratory tract felt constricted. The tempo of your heart hastened. You shook your head back and forth, shoulders jumping with each cough, and put one hand up in the shape of an L, curling your pointer finger down repeatedly. 

“Do you need your inhaler?” he asked. 

You nodded and managed to gasp out, “Purse—room—”

He jumped to his feet and rushed out of the room and returned a few moments later, elbow deep in your ratty canvas tote bag, muttering under his breath, “How the fuck do you find anything in here?”

Finally, he pulled the inhaler out and you snatched it from him, shaking it for a moment before popping the cap off and sealing your lips around the mouth piece. You inhaled a few puffs of albuterol and felt it start to take effect, lungs calming, shifting their violent spasms into smaller, more manageable hiccups. 

Frankie sat down next to you and rubbed your back in slow, soothing motions. It should have felt good, but the gentle touch sent ripples of pain across your skin. You whimpered, “Everything hurts.”

“You’re not going to work today,” he declared.

“No,” you confirmed, “Marla is with them. Don’t have to go.” 

“I’m staying with you,” he said then.

You pouted, shoulders slumping as you looked over at him, “Don’t—”

Sternness creased his forehead, “It’s not a question.” 

“I can take care of myself,” you protested weakly. 

He raised his eyebrows and blinked at you, as if to reaffirm that this was non-negotiable. 

“Fine,” you murmured in defeat. 

A small, victorious smile crossed his face, “Atta girl.”

> MARLA: > We all tested positive for Influenza B, FYI. How are you feeling? 

< ME: < I think I caught it :( 

“It’s the flu,” you inform Frankie in a croaky murmur. 

His eyes don’t part from the TV when he says, “Told ya.”

You want to shoot a glare at him, but find your energy reserves depleted. The bones in your wrist cry out when you tuck the phone beneath your pillow. A whine squeaks from your raw, tight throat. 

“Do you wanna lay down in your room? Might be comfier there,” he suggests. 

“No TV,” you grumble. 

His mouth folds into a thoughtful frown. He taps his fingers against his lips, then looks over at you, “I can set it up in there.” 

You study his face, “Really?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, then rises to his feet, “Need help getting up?”

“No,” you insist, but when you sit upright, your head starts to spin and throb. With a pathetic whimper, you pinch the bridge of your nose. 

Frankie stares down at you expectantly, but a spin cycle tumbles your brain in its centrifuge. You can’t stop it. He holds his hand out, a wordless offer of assistance. 

You swat it away. 

Frustration boils your blood. A wave of wet coughs bubbles up your throat. 

I don’t want your fucking help. I can do this myself. I don’t fucking need you. 

You try to stand, but your legs are wobbly and collapse under pressure. Your hands ball into fists and you hit the couch cushion on either side of you as hard as you can, which isn’t very hard, then choke out between coughs, “I—fucking—hate this—”

Frankie’s face sags with pity, “Do you need—”

“No!” you try to yell with authority, but it comes out this pitiable, gurgling, wheezy word that crushes your spirit. 

Your shoulders shake from the force of your coughing. You slump over into yourself and bury your face in your hands. 

Frankie returns to his seat beside you and hands you the inhaler from the coffee table. You grab it and take a few puffs, then try to calm down as the albuterol works at your inflamed airway. 

“We should go see the doctor,” he says quietly. 

You manage to meet his gaze and pout. His eyes are pleading, but you shake your head, “I’m fine.”

“You can barely breathe—”

“I’m fine,” you repeat. 

His jaw cocks to the side and he grumbles, “You’re so fucking stubborn, you know that?” 

“Never heard that before—” you take a gulp of air, “in my life.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he chuckles, then stands again, “Ready?”

You nod and get to your feet, the sweat-drenched throw blanket draped over your shoulders like a cape as you tiptoe through the house, to your bedroom, where you collapse on top of your covers. 

Frankie talks to you while he gets everything set up, muttering things about fevers and breathing. Your eyes follow him as he does this, but you ignore his reminders to drink from the water bottle on your side table and take the Tylenol he set next to it, because you’re pretty sure he’s not even real. 

After getting the TV set up, he turns it on and resumes your King of the Hill marathon. He makes you sit up to take the Tylenol and chase it with a half a bottle of water, then leaves for a few minutes. He returns holding your phone in one hand and a bowl of soup in the other. 

You grimace at both items, but take your phone. Frankie sets the steaming bowl of soup on your nightstand and asks, “Do you want me to leave?”

“Aren’t you—” you yawn, cough, then finish your sentence, “worried you’ll get sick?” 

He frowns and shakes his head, shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, “I got a flu shot.” 

Your skepticism must be etched into your face, because shifts his weight to one leg and explains further, “Angie makes us get them every year.”

“She’s so responsible,” you admire. 

He shifts his weight to the other leg and runs a hand through his messy hair. Your head swims, and again, you’re struck by the sense that this isn’t real. You’re flattened into 2D. A flipbook cartoon. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion and far away.

“I get it. Why you chose her,” you mumble breathlessly, snuggling in closer to your pillow and blanket, letting your eyelids flutter closed, “So pretty, and fun, and has her shit together,” a cough interrupts you, and when you regain your stamina, you hum, “She’s awesome. I get it.” 

Frankie doesn’t say anything, but as you’re drifting to sleep, you feel him tug your covers out from underneath you and tuck you into bed. 

When your eyes open again, the room is much darker. You sit upright and look around. Everything seems familiar, yet completely foreign. Your bedroom, but veiled. Hazy, almost. 

And quiet. 

So fucking quiet that your pulse echoes in your head. 

“Frankie?” you call out into the darkness of your open doorway. 

He doesn’t respond. 

Unease settles in your gut, heavy and hard. A boulder lodged in your intestines. You swing your feet over the side of your bed and press the soles of your feet against the hardwood floor. The floorboards creak when you tiptoe across the dimly-lit room to the doorway. 

Then you pause and study it. 

It looks ominous for some reason. Bigger than it should be. 

As you step through it, you move through a slick, shiny membrane, which gives way to your entry with little resistance. It leaves a gummy residue on your skin. You try to wipe the remnants from your arms, grimacing at how viscous the clear fluid feels against your hands. 

This is when you notice your surroundings are no longer dark. You squint up and look around.

Sunlight pours in through a windowed dome that stretches high above you. Beyond it lies a long, glass tunnel. Moisture from the humid air settles on your skin atop the layer of doorway residue. 

Trees and bushes of all shapes and sizes fill the space. Some with thick, waxy leaves. Some adorned with colorful, blooming flowers. Crowds of faceless people mull about on a terracotta path that winds through the enclosure. None of them seem to notice you standing there in your pajamas. 

The butterflies notice you, though. 

Monarchs, tiger-like stripes sectioning off orange, their wings tipped with a thick black outline and dots of white. Paper Kites, their chalky white wings appearing luminous in the sunshine, black spots and stripes contrasting the bright glow. Owl butterflies, huge by comparison, their wings decorated with circular patterns in many shades of brown. 

Dozens of others flutter around you, a wide variety of species, each one breathtaking in their own right. A few land on your arm when you hold it up.

You smile, then the familiarity of this place dawns on you. The butterfly house. 

Frankie took you here occasionally when you were still together. Sometimes with Sarah, sometimes without. Far enough away from Kissimmee and Orlando that he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. 

When the two of you were here, it felt like you were a normal couple. He held your hand while you walked the paths. Murmured sweet nothings into your ear as you marveled at the foliage and butterflies. 

Your attention snags on something in the path ahead of you, yanking you from your bittersweet nostalgia.

A white t-shirt stretched across his broad, hunched-up shoulders. Dark curls poking out from beneath his ragged hat. His slightly off-kilter, halting gait as he pushes a stroller in the opposite direction. 

“Frankie!” you call. 

He doesn’t react. Nobody reacts. 

You start after him, calling his name over and over again, but he doesn’t turn towards your voice. Your stomach starts to churn. Swollen, gray clouds roll across the sky and tone the conservatory a dim, moody gray. 

“Frankie, what the fuck?!” you pant when you catch up to him, vocal chords wavering, giving away the state of your frayed nerves. You grab his arm and spin him around, then take a step back. 

It’s not Frankie.

The older man before you has a thick white mustache brimming his frail, wrinkled lips. His shortly-trimmed white hair stands straight up from his scalp. You have to crane your neck up to meet his cold, gray eyes. 

The smile that stretches across his face churns your stomach. Goosebumps prick your skin. 

Your eyes flick from his to the stroller. 

It’s empty. 

You shake your head, taking another step back. Hot tears pool in your eyes and turn the world around you blurry. 

When you look back to the man, he seems even taller. Your heart hammers in your chest. One message broadcasts through your brain: GET THE FUCK OUT. 

You retreat backwards. Only a few slow steps at first, but your feet pick up the pace quickly when you see his arms. 

His fucking arms. 

They stretch after you, but his body doesn’t move. 

Panic spikes your bloodstream. 

You sprint in the opposite direction, away from him, your feet pounding against the empty pathway. Everything is dark now. Like the sun burnt out. 

His slender fingers dig into your arms. He clenches down, pulling you back towards him, dragging you over the terracotta pathway as you struggle to escape, screaming, “No no no, No! NO! N—”

Your body starts to shake, then your eyes snap open and meet Frankie’s, all wide and glazed with distress. He’s hovering above you, hands on your shoulders, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “Hey, are you ok?”

When you meet his gaze and understand that he’s real, your face crumbles, and you try to sob with relief, but your breath catches in your throat. Your hands fly to your neck. The gasps that are able to pass through the constricted airway are shallow. 

It feels like you’re a fish out of water. 

He grabs your inhaler from the nightstand and shakes it, flinging the cap off with one hand as the other guides you to sit up. You take a few puffs, and it makes it easier, but your throat is still tight. Lungs still feel three times too small. 

“We’re going to the hospital.” 

It’s not a plea, or a question, or a request like it was earlier. He’s making a statement of fact.

He marches from the room and comes back with the straps of your purse held up in a stranglehold, “Is your insurance card in here?” 

You nod and swallow hard. It hurts like your throat is an open wound. Tears burn behind your eyes and roll down your cheeks. Your breaths come in short little wheezes that unleash a flood of adrenaline into your heart. 

“Ok,” he says, strides to the nightstand, throws your inhaler and cell phone inside, slings the cross-body strap over his shoulder, and looks at you. 

His face droops momentarily and his eyes get all watery and red, then he hardens his features and tells you, “It’s gonna be ok, sweetheart, ok?”

You shake your head and open your mouth to let your worries spill from your lips, but nothing comes out except a gasp for oxygen. 

“Right now I just need you to try and stay calm. I know it’s hard but you have to try, alright?” 

His voice is low and quivering. You search his face and understand that he’s worried, too, so you nod.

“Ok, let’s go, mamacita,” he rumbles.

You want to tell him that he can’t drive. That he can’t risk going to fucking jail because of you. But you don’t. You can’t. 

Frankie pulls the blankets back and the air feels like ice against your skin. Shivers shoot across your body, making your teeth chatter. He lifts you from the bed with a groan. You hook your arms around his neck and try your hardest to hold on.  

When you get to the Emergency Room, you’re barely coherent, so Frankie fills out the intake paperwork for you. He talks to the triage nurse, who brings you back to be checked out.  

Everything sort of blurs from there.

The nurses check your vitals, take some swabs, and ask a bunch of questions that, between your foggy mind and Frankie, are mostly answered. A doctor comes in and talks to the two of you, returning shortly thereafter to advise that you’re being admitted to the hospital for overnight treatment and observation. 

You’re wheeled to another department and hooked up to an IV, an oxygen tank, and all kinds of different monitors. Your hospital room is like a revolving-door of medical personnel, but Frankie holds steadfast by your side throughout the chaos. 

During a moment of quiet, when just the two of you remain in the room, you look at him. 

He sits in a squeaky armchair he pulled up next to your bed, elbows resting on his knees, chin propped up in his palm, staring up at the TV as he flips through the limited channels on hospital cable. 

You swallow, then clear your throat and croak out, “Frankie?”

His eyebrows shoot up and he turns to meet your eyes in question. 

“Can you—hand me—my phone?” 

“Yeah,” he leans over to grab your purse off the couch, sifting through it for a moment before fishing out your cell phone and handing it to you. 

When you grab it from him, your hand drops to your side. You blink slowly at the sight, unable to comprehend why you can’t lift it. Your brow furrows and you frown at Frankie, whose features are all creased with concern. 

“Do—do you need help?” he asks. 

It’s like your bones are both weightless and infinitely dense. Your head is swimming but a deep fatigue keeps you pinned to the bed. You manage to nod. 

He plucks the phone from your tenuous grasp and probes further, “Do you… want me to text people to let them know?”

You nod. 

“Sisters, brother, Mom, Dad, all them?” 

You nod. 

“Marla?”

You nod. 

“Rory?”

You scrunch up your nose and shrug. 

“Anyone else? Friends?” 

You pause to think about this, but mostly you’re just thinking about how sad it is that your only friends that aren’t family are him and Marla. You shake your head, then furrow your brow and rasp, “Ralph?” 

“I told him what’s going on already,” he informs you, then inquires, “What’s—uh, what’s your passcode?” 

Your shoulders slump and your guts twist when you realize you have to tell him this embarrassing information. Something you never thought he’d have an opportunity to discover. You swallow hard, wincing at the pain from your tight throat muscles, then admit, “07–25–19”

He searches your face as his brow creases, eyes softening into a pained expression, “Sarah’s birthday?”

All you can do is shrug. A testament to how pathetic you feel. 

He holds your gaze for another beat, then drops it to your phone and starts tapping away. You let fatigue curl around your consciousness and drift off into sleep. 

Occasionally you wake and hear him talking to someone, either to a person on the phone or to hospital staff in the room. Once, you wake and think he’s talking to himself, his forehead pressed against his clasped hands. 

Later, you swear you hear a doctor tell Frankie, “Your wife seems to be stable, but we will have to keep her for a few days to continue treatment.”

Your eyes blink open and you see Frankie nod in acknowledgment, then ask, “Is she gonna be ok?”

“She’ll be just fine,” comes the response, and you watch tension melt from his shoulders. 

You want to stay awake, to ask him questions like: A few days? and Did the doctor just call me your fucking wife?

More so, you desperately want to reach out and hold his hand. You want to tell him you’ll be ok, to thank him for taking care of you. To thank him for caring at all. 

But your body holds you hostage. Your joints are all super glued in place. Muscles disconnected from your brain. A weight bears down on you, tugging at your eyelids, lulling you back to sleep. 

The next time you wake, the room is dark and quiet. 

First, you hear the equipment hooked up to your body. The faint beeping of monitors. Gears whizzing and turning, the buzz of machines at work. 

Then, you hear a snore. You turn and see Frankie still sitting in the armchair at your bedside. Your heart jumps in your chest and your throat lets out a little yelp of surprise.

Frankie starts awake at the noise, his legs jerking upwards in reaction, falling from their place propped up on your hospital bed. A stiff beige blanket falls from his chest as he sits up straight. He takes a deep breath, which you envy, and looks around the room, then blinks sleepily at you. 

“Hi,” you whisper. It comes out scratchy and dry. The tickle in your throat makes you start coughing. Every heaving, choked breath shoots a wave of pain across your body. 

He grabs a hard plastic water bottle with the hospital’s logo printed across the center and holds it in front of you. You lean forward to seal your lips around the straw, take half a dozen big swallows of ice cold water, then lay back. 

“That was fucking awesome,” you gasp. For the first time since you’ve been admitted, it doesn’t feel like something is actively squeezing the air from your lungs. 

Frankie chuckles at this, then brings himself closer to meet your eyes in the darkness, asking you in a low, quiet voice, “How’re you feeling?” 

“Like I could run a mile,” you joke. 

He smiles wide and genuine, dimples pricking his cheeks, and shakes his head, “There she is.” 

Warmth spreads across your chest and you hum, reaching out to him with your non-intubated hand. He takes it in his own, grazing his thumb across your knuckles as he sighs, “You scared the shit out of me today.”

“Sorry,” you murmur. Your eyes meet his and hold steady. There’s a spark of something in the space between you. It’s sweet and meaningful and makes your bones buzz. Like a battery clicks into place and completes the circuit. 

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then shuts it when a nurse toddles into the room. Your heart jumps like she caught you in the middle of doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing. On instinct, you drop Frankie’s hand and look at her with wide eyes. 

The plump, middle-aged woman just gives you a cheery smile and says, “Oh, you’re up! Do you mind if I turn the lights on and check you out?” 

You shrug, “Sure.”

Frankie excuses himself to go to the bathroom. The nurse takes your blood pressure and presses a stethoscope to your bare back through the parted hospital gown, humming and noting her findings in your chart. She checks all the readings on the machines you’re hooked up to and jots those down as well. 

She leaves for a moment to get a new bag of IV fluid. You glance around the sterile, sad looking room. It holds an air of faux comfort. Mass-produced landscape artwork framed on the wall, furniture all upholstered in a shiny, pastel green fabric, countertops and floors as white and spotless as porcelain. 

You squint at something on a tabletop in the corner. A vase of yellow roses. The nurse re-enters the room and hangs the bag of clear fluid on your IV pole. 

You blink at the flowers a few times, just to make sure you’re not imagining them, then ask her, “Are those for me?”

The nurse’s face twists up in amusement at your question, and she snorts, “No, they’re for the other sick girl.” 

Her sarcasm is justified. 

Frankie walks back into the room then, and you ask, “Who sent those?” 

“Rory,” he tells you, crossing paths with the nurse as she leaves. 

Your lip curls, “Oh.”

“Christ, do you even like him?” he chuckles, but studies your face in a serious way that makes you think he genuinely wants to know. 

The answer would require more breath than you’re able to give at the moment. 

Rory. 

You should like him. Hell, you should be falling head over heels for him. He’s dedicated, confident, loyal, respectful, and attractive. His dick is big and he knows how to use it. He takes you out on dates and performs chivalrous gestures, like holding doors open, pulling your chair out, and bringing you flowers.

He checks off so many boxes. But you don’t feel that spark, that thing, that Diane Barrows talked about in It Takes Two: 

That can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, world series kind of love.

That’s what you want. 

And every time you see Rory, you think maybe it’ll change, that he’ll grow on you, but your discomfort in his presence only seems to get worse. You think you should probably dump him, but you’re not sure if it’s the right call or not. 

Because what if you’re just so used to the exhilaration of your toxic relationship with Frankie, that you don’t yet understand how it feels to be treated right? What if you’re just in need of repair? What if you just need to learn to be in a normal relationship? 

Because what if Rory is the last chance you have for someone to love you? 

So, instead of answering Frankie’s question, you observe, “That chair looks uncomfortable.” 

“Correct, it’s really fucking uncomfortable,” he nods and lets out a little chuckle. 

Your teeth catch on your tongue and you clamp down on it a few times as you consider this, then release it and tell him quietly, “You don’t have to stay.”

“I know,” he leans forward, pressing his fingers to his lips, and shrugs, “I—I want to, though.”

Your heart skips a beat. Heat bubbles up the middle of you, creeping up your neck, onto your cheeks. 

You reach out and take his hand in yours, then pull it closer. He lets you do this, and his brows knit together as he stares down at your interlaced fingers. Neither of you say anything. You wriggle onto your side and yawn. Fatigue sinks into your muscles and tugs at your eyelids.

“I don’t think I’d trust myself to be there while you're here,” he admits after a while. 

You blink your eyes all the way open and study his face, “Why not?”

Frankie shrugs, “You’d be here alone. I’d have no idea what the hell is going on with you,” he scoffs and shakes his head, “Fuck that.” 

A sleepy smile stretches across your face, “You’re sweet.”

He doesn’t say anything, just grins and holds your gaze. Your stomach flips and you ask, “Wanna sleep up here?”

“I’m good here,” he responds with a yawn, pulling the scratchy looking blanket up to his chin as he kicks his feet up onto your hospital bed, “Thanks, though.” 

It sort of makes you sad, but your eyes flutter closed and you murmur, “You’d get tangled up anyway.” 

“What?” he laughs. 

“The tubes,” you explain, “Fuckin’ everywhere.” 

He snorts and squeezes your hand. Silence settles over the room. Your mind wanders to the fragments of conversations you overheard between intervals of sleep. 

“Frankie,” you murmur. 

He grunts in response. 

“Did you tell them—that we’re married?” 

It’s quiet for a moment, and you’re not sure he’s still awake, until he says, “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want them to make me leave,” he says. 

You hum in acknowledgment. Ignore your heart’s stuttering beat. 

“Wha’d my family say?”

“Everyone said they hope you feel better soon. Asked us to keep them posted. Leah’s gonna call to see how you’re doing tomorrow.” 

You yawn and nod, then ask, “Are you leaving tomorrow?” 

“You tryin’ to get rid of me?” he chuckles softly. 

“Mmm no,” you tug at your clasped hands and tuck them under your cheek, “But, Sarah—”

“It’s fine, mariposa. Just get some rest.” 

The nickname twists your stomach like a dishrag. You haven’t heard it cross his lips in ages. The one he used in those tender moments where you felt him let you into his heart. Only to be shoved away at the next given opportunity.

Fuck, it was like clockwork. 

There was one day you were laying next to him in his bed, in the spot his wife slept each night. He traced your naked body with his fingertips and rumbled, “You’re the only one who understands me, mariposa.” 

His eyes were warm and glowing in the sunlight streaming through the window. When he met your gaze, you saw something there. Adoration etched into his features, radiating through his touch as it skated across your skin. 

“Really?” you breathed. 

He searched your face and nodded solemnly. Drew you closer and kissed your lips. Your chest ached deep and wide with love. 

Not a crush. Not lust. Not infatuation. 

Real, true, pure fucking love. 

So you told him. 

“I love you.”

His touch ceased. He pulled back, furrowing his brow. You watched his face shift from confusion, to surprise, to worry. 

Then he shook his head and whispered, “I… can’t.”

It felt like you were dropped from a 10-story building and pancaked onto the sidewalk. Your nerves started to buzz and twist. You didn’t know what to do, how to convey the panic building in your chest. So you stared at him. 

“You—you know we can’t be together like that,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring like the words he was saying weren’t ripping you apart, his wide eyes frantically scanning your face, “Right? I mean, I’m—I’m married, and Angie—I love her—”

The knife in your gut twisted. 

“I know,” you nodded, flashing a reassuring smile, but rolled out of bed and started to get dressed, facing away from him so he couldn’t see the tears brimming your eyelids. 

“Come on, you knew what you were getting into when this started.” 

Salt in your wounds. 

Obviously you knew he was married, and he never made you promises of running away together. But you really thought that this was more to him than sex. 

You swore you felt it. 

When it was just the two of you, he would joke with you, and cuddle with you, and kiss your forehead, and hold your hand, and tell you things… intimate things.

Things about his upbringing. About his absent, alcoholic father, and his mother who did her best but struggled desperately. How he was an only child split between households when his mom finally had enough and divorced his dad. 

He told you about his time in the service, time he spent overseas fighting a war for his country, then for the highest bidder. How he took lives, destroyed communities, and sold years of his life to make the rich even richer. 

He told you about how, just a year prior to that afternoon in his bed, he went on an independent mission to South America with his brothers in arms. It went tits up. He watched one of his best friends get shot in the fucking head. They had to drag his body through the Andes, along with millions of dollars seized from a drug kingpin. Most of the money was lost, and the residual earnings of this expedition were given to the deceased’s family. 

He told you about how, he realized afterwards, the cost wasn’t worth it. The value of his friend’s life exceeded that of anything they would have brought home. 

He told you this in a matter-of-fact way. His voice was calm, shoulders level, back straight. And his eyes… they were so far away. Like he was there again. 

You recognized yourself in his detached gaze. In the subtle tensing of his body. 

You thought his telling you these things meant he trusted you with them. You thought him telling you these things meant he was placing his heart in your hands. 

And there were other things. 

He held you like he was abandoned at sea and you were a life-preserver buoying him to the surface of choppy waves. He kissed you like he was starved for affection. Fucked you like it was his last day on Earth. 

You thought it meant something to him. 

This is it, you thought, this is love. 

That can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars over the fence, world series kind of love.

You were astounded that you could have read him so wrong. Of all the things you’ve been uncertain of in life, you genuinely didn’t think this was one of them. It flipped your worldview upside down. 

You felt naïve. Foolish. 

Of course he can’t love you.

Of course he doesn’t love you. 

“I know,” you managed to choke out while pulling your shirt over your head. 

“Hey,” he said softly, trying to get you to look at him. 

“It’s ok, Frankie, really,“ you shook your head and tucked your hair behind your ear, then tiptoed into the bathroom, where you allowed yourself to cry silently for five minutes. 

When you emerged, he was sitting on the couch drinking whiskey. Sarah was still napping. You sequestered yourself in the kitchen, painfully aware of Frankie’s presence in the next room. 

When Angie got home, he kissed her hello right in front of you. Made a big show of it. 

And you hated her. 

Envy is probably more accurate than hate, you think, in retrospect. At the time, all you knew was it seared your insides like hellfire when he touched her. You wanted to dig your fingernails into her cheeks and rip her pretty face right off of her skull.

You picked up your purse and plastered on a mask of neutrality, “Well, I’m off. Have a good weekend, guys.” 

It almost slipped when your gaze caught on Frankie’s. He wore this pained expression like this hurt for him, too. 

You broke eye contact and rushed out the door to your car. Once inside, you screamed at the top of your lungs into the steering wheel. Your throat burned raw with territorial rage, and rejection, and heartbreak. 

You kept thinking of that fucking look on his face. That fucking nickname. His faux intimacy. Your stupidity in thinking he felt the same as you. 

On your way home, you went to your favorite spot, Bubba’s. 

The establishment’s owner and namesake, Bubba, was working, as he often was on Friday nights. You selected one of the many empty barstools and sat down, running your hands over your face, releasing a deep sigh. 

Bubba nodded in your direction, “Whiskey coke?”

His voice was gravelly and carried bass from deep in his chest. 

“Yeah,” you muttered and dug your phone from your purse, then sent a text to Leah, and another to Marlene, telling them about the recent turn of events in your pathetic life. 

Bubba kept his sharp blue eyes on you as he made your drink, burning a hole into your profile. You noticed, and bunched your fist against your face, trying to conceal your puffy eyelids, your wet cheeks, your shaky breath. 

“Do I needta kick someone’s ass, er what?” he asked as he placed your whiskey coke on a coaster in front of you. Bubba laced his wiry gray eyebrows together and leaned against the bar, beer belly pressing into the counter. 

You snorted at him and shook your head, avoiding his gaze by looking up at the sports news show on the TV, “I’m fine.”

“Ok,” he shrugged in a disbelieving manner, “You just let me know if you need anythin’, darlin’.” 

“Sure thing,” you murmured, raising the straw to your lips. 

When your phone started ringing, you were three drinks deep. Your mind was starting to bend and blur, the booze supplying a much needed reprieve from reality. 

Your heart stuttered when you saw his name populate your phone screen. Then your face flushed with indignation. 

“What?” you answered in an icy tone. 

“Where are you?” he asked. His words were all huddled together. Spoken too close to the speaker. He was drunk. 

“Why do you care?” you scoffed. 

“Needta talkta you about somethin’,” he mumbled, “Where are you?”

“You sound shitfaced, Frankie,” you frowned at your empty drink, stabbed the ice with your straw, then looked around and locked eyes with Bubba. He nodded in acknowledgement and started to make you a new drink. 

“Jus—jus—jus, shut the fuck up and tell me where you are—”

“Hey, fuck you,” you yelled in return, unable to stop the rage from bubbling up inside you. 

A big sigh crackled over the speaker, then he adjusted his tone to something less severe, “Sorry—soooo sorry, sweetheart. But I needta talk to you, please.”

“You’re talking to me now, Francisco.”

There was a long pause, then he mumbled, “I wanna see you.”

“You’re not driving.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I miss you.”

Tightness radiated across your chest. Heat tingled up your throat, into your sinuses. You swallowed hard. 

“Please, baby,” he croaked, “Please.”

“Bubba’s,” you sighed, then hung up. 

Frankie strode through the door ten minutes later. His movements were overly fluid, spilling over the edges of his body’s limits when he came to sit next to you, “Hey.”

Bubba eyed Frankie from afar, but didn’t approach him to ask if he wanted a drink.

“Please tell me you didn’t drive here,” you hissed, searching his face. 

“I didn’t drive here,” he grinned, crossing his arms, leaning forward onto the bar. 

“Frankie—” you protested. 

“No, wait—wait, listen,” he grabbed your hand and kissed your palm. 

You winced at the sharp pain that twisted your heart. He didn’t notice, just pressed your unresponsive hand against his cheek, against the grain of his patchy beard, and drew his eyebrows together, “I’m sorry.”

“You already said that,” you blinked. 

“Don’t be mad at me, sweetheart,” his voice was raspy and low as he searched your face with those puppy dog eyes that tugged at your heart strings, “Please, I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

You released a heavy sigh, “I’m not mad at you, Frankie. I just—I don’t know, I thought…” 

Your shoulders slumped as you dropped your gaze to your drink. 

“Hey,” he squeezed your hand, kissed your palm, and pressed it against his cheek again, “What we have’s really special to me. But I—”

“Can’t, I know,” you mumbled and pulled your hand away. 

He cocked his jaw back and forth, then leaned closer and asked, “So is this it then? Are you done with me?” 

You knew that if you said yes and he’d accept it. This would be over and you could walk away with your dignity still intact. You could find a new job and gracefully bow out of the Morales household. 

You knew that if you said yes you’d never have him again. Never again would you feel the heat of his desire, or hear the joy of his laughter, or taste the sweetness of his affection. You knew that you’d be forfeiting any chance to make him fall in love with you. 

It was so desperate and raw, the way you wanted him to love you. 

“I should be the one asking you that,” you rolled your head on your shoulders to look at him. 

He held your gaze and furrowed his brow, “Why would I be done with you?” 

You scoffed, “Because I’m apparently a fucking idiot.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re not an idiot,” he groaned, then draped his arm around the back of your barstool, leaning close, “You are clever, and—and beautiful, and—”

His compliments flipped your stomach upside down. You raised your eyebrows, “Ok—”

“Shhh,” he pressed a finger to your lips, “Let me finish.”

You swatted his hand away playfully, while he just grinned and leaned closer, “And sweet, and generous, and funny, and kind of a fucking brat, honestly—”

“Excuse me?!” you gasped. 

“—But I like that about you! I do. You’re fucking amazing,” he told you, and by now his breath was hot against your cheek, and he murmured, “I don’t want you to go anywhere, sweetheart. I mean that.”

You met his gaze and held it. A palpable energy flowed between his body and yours. His eyes flicked down to your lips and a rumble sounded from the back of his throat. 

Then he kissed you. It was this slow, lingering kind of kiss that only made you want more. You balled his shirt in your fist and tugged at it, kissing him deeper, harder, more urgent.

Kissing was like that with him. Hungry. Passionate. Thrilling. 

He stood from the barstool to get closer to you, to get a better angle against your lips. His fingertips dug into your waist and filled you with a hot, gooey ache. 

“Stay with me tonight,” you breathed against his mouth, “Please.”

He nodded, “I can do that.”

It would happen almost every time. You would misread his affection and lust for love, get too deep, pry yourself open. Only for him to remind you of your place in his life: a mistress. 

That’s all you were. 

And now… you’re friends. 

These heated sparks of something more you think you feel from him, it’s wishful thinking. 

You let go of his hand and roll over to face the opposite direction. 

When you’re sure you hear his breathing slow to a pattern indicative of sleep, you release the hurt held hostage in your body. The way you allow yourself to cry is cautious and guarded. Quiet, metered sniffles as tears roll hot down your cheeks. Only once do you lose yourself, choking out an audible sob that thankfully doesn’t seem to wake him. 

You’re not sure exactly when, but eventually, exhaustion wins over your agitated body and you drift into unconsciousness. 

Leah calls you sometime after breakfast and your AM antiviral infusion, but before lunch. When she calls, the room is vacant. Frankie is out with Benny, who’s giving him a ride to your house so he can grab some things.

“Hey,” you answer. 

“Hey, how are you?” Her voice is honeyed and sympathetic. It makes you crinkle your nose. 

“Good,” you answer reflexively, then backtrack, “Well, not good. Y’know.” You laugh nervously and it catches in your throat, making you cough. 

When it ceases, Leah asks, “Do you know when you’ll get discharged?”

“Probably tomorrow. If I keep getting better,” you tell her, looking up at the old game show playing on TV, then admit, “It was spooky.”

“It sounds like it. Frankie was freaking out when I talked to him.”

You frown, “He was?”

“Yeah,” she chuckles, then stops and says, “Sorry, it’s not funny.”

“No, it’s hilarious that I–couldn’t breathe,” you scoff and roll your eyes, then inquire further, “How was he freaking out?”

“Well, I told him I’m a nurse, right? And he just starts asking me all these questions about asthma, and the flu, and asking if he waited too long to take you, all that,” she stops and takes a sip of, what you’re assuming is, coffee, then continues, “It was kind of sweet.”

You hum and nod, even though she can’t see you.

“I was expecting him to be a total dick from what you’ve told me about him. He’s the married guy, right?” 

“Yeah,” you confirm, glancing over to the armchair he slept in last night, “Since he stopped drinking, it’s… been different. I think. I don’t know,” you shake your head, then bring your attention back to the TV screen, “I can’t trust my judgment with him.” 

“Are you guys—”

“No,” you interject. 

“Did you tell him about the—”

“Nope,” you cut her off again. 

She grumbles in frustration on her end, then sighs, “Are you bringing him to Rachel’s wedding?” 

“Maybe. If he wants to,” you frown as you consider this, “I might have to, actually. With the… parole thing.”

“Since she wants us all there for the whole stinkin’ week, yeah, probably,” Leah scoffs, then adds, “I’m so ready for it to be over with. She’s being a total bridezilla. You know how she gets.”

“Do I ever,” you mutter. 

The door opens, and your eyes flick towards it. Frankie walks in with a backpack slung around his shoulder and nods at you in greeting. His dark curls look damp under his hat, and his gray t-shirt clings to his body in a way that makes heat creep up onto your cheeks. 

Then you notice a brown paper bag crinkled up in one of his hands. The scent of deep-fried food fills the room.  

“Is that Leah?” he asks.

“Is that Frankie?” Leah asks.

“Yeah,” you respond to both of them, then ask Frankie, “Did you bring me food?”

“Yeah,” he grins, holding the bag up like a trophy. Your mouth starts to salivate. 

“I can let you go,” Leah says, “Just wanted to check in with you and see how you’re holding up.”

“Thanks,” you look down at the IV implanted in your hand, “I’ll keep you posted, ok?” 

“Tell Frankie I said hi.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You hang up and toss the phone aside, “She says hi.”

“I like her, she’s nice,” he drops the backpack to the ground and hands you the bag of greasy food. 

“Fuck yes,” you groan as you pull out flimsy containers of french fries and chicken strips.

“You did not look happy to have oatmeal for breakfast,” he chuckles, then sits in the armchair next to your bed and unzips the backpack, “I brought your book, your notebook, and, um…”

He pulls out a stuffed panda bear. You momentarily forget the fragile state of your lungs and gasp, which pulls a cluster of coughs up through your respiratory system. Through the fit, you reach out and snatch it from his hands. 

It’s plush and squishy and fills you with joy when you hug it to your chest. 

Frankie’s face simultaneously lights up and creases with concern. He leans forward and rubs your back, “Ok, ok, settle down.”

“It’s,” cough, “so,” cough, “cute—”

“I’m under strict orders to tell you Benny helped me pick it out,” Frankie reclines in the chair and crosses his arms over his chest. 

Once you catch your breath, you smirk and waggle your eyebrows at him, teasing, “Oh, really? Benny did that—for me?”

“You’re hilarious,” he rolls his eyes and grabs the TV remote, then kicks his feet up onto the hospital bed. While you eat chicken strips and snuggle your new stuffed animal, he flips through channels, eventually settling on NASCAR, which lulls you back to sleep. 

Tonight, family dinner is taking place in your bed. 

Which sounds sexual, but it’s not. 

You’re freshly discharged from the hospital, and Frankie spent the last two nights sleeping in an armchair, so you agreed that some intensive comfort time was needed. The TV has been playing movies back to back all day, and now the two of you lay under the covers, in your pajamas, with a big pizza box between your bodies. 

When the credits for Fantastic Mr. Fox start, Frankie pauses it and rolls on his side to face you, “We’re still doing this part, right?”

“Yeah,” you yawn and follow his lead, wriggling onto your side, nuzzling against the stuffed panda bear. Your nose crinkles at the greasy pizza box and its remaining 3 slices.

“Hang on,” he mumbles, then sits up and moves the box onto the floor beside him. 

When he returns, he settles closer to you. His dark irises flick about your features, then anchor onto your eyes with intensity. Your stomach flutters and heart swells. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat like he’s preparing it for the words he’s about to say. He takes a deep breath, then confesses, “I really thought I was gonna lose you,” he shakes his head, “And I was… so fucking terrified.” 

The proof is in his voice, low and trembling and unsure. It occurs to you then that this man has faced critical situations, of which the overwhelming majority of people never dream of facing, with the kind of certainty and bravery that got him out alive. He’s not easily shaken. 

But he was scared of losing you. 

“You’re not gonna lose me,” you search his face and reach out to him.

He takes this offering, interweaving his fingers with yours, laying your clasped hands in space between you, “I know that now, but… fuck, I keep thinking about what would have happened if I wasn’t here. If I had gone to work, or—or if I didn’t live here, and things were still...”

His jaw clamps shut and gnashes from side to side as he averts his gaze, “I don’t know. If things were still… bad between us,” his eyes flick to yours and he shakes his head, “I don’t think I could live with that.”

Desperately, you want him to say more. You want him to deconstruct his carefully curated statement and lay it out for you. You want to ask: And what the fuck does that mean exactly? What are you trying to tell me without telling me? 

But you’re still weighed down by the pull of fatigue’s gravity. Your throat is raw and lungs are cramped. Every muscle in your body still holds residual aches and pains. 

Your lips part to speak, but you recant the words in your throat. Instead, you whisper, “Thank you for taking care of me, Frankie.”

“No problem,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sad kind of smirk, before folding down into a frown. His gaze is far away. Thoughtful. He runs his free hand through his mop of dark curls and releases a heavy sigh, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I care about you a lot. And… these past few weeks, they’ve been really hard,” he furrows his brow, then meets your eyes, “But they’ve also been really good, because I’ve been able to spend them with you.” 

All the air is sucked from your lungs. A cough surfaces from deep in your chest and you smother it in your stuffed panda bear. He watches you and waits patiently for you to recover. 

When you do, you admit quietly, “Did you know that you’re like… my only friend?” 

“I am, really?” he raises his eyebrows. 

A self-deprecating smile stretches across your face as you nod, then shrug, “I mean, Marla and my siblings don’t really count. They pretty much have to tolerate me.”

“And I don’t?” he teases, flashing you a playful grin. 

His comment pokes at a tender spot in your brain. Your lip sticks out in a very real pout and you whimper, “Ouch.”

“Oh, come on,” he chuckles and scoots closer, beckoning you into his arms. You take this olive branch and wriggle into his embrace, letting your forehead rest on his chest as he hugs you and murmurs into your hair, “You know I love you, right?”

Both of your bodies go rigid the second it leaves his mouth. You feel his heart start pounding rapidly against your skin and he stammers, “I—I mean—like a friend—”

You wince at the pang that shoots through your damaged heart. The words you’ve always wanted to hear him say. With a caveat. 

So typical.

Maybe it’s because the flu still has you in its clutches and you’re fucking exhausted, or maybe you’re just becoming numb to it all, but you let out a little snort and say, “I know what you mean.” 

He seems to relax at this. 

Neither of you move from the comfort of this embrace. In fact, you nuzzle in closer to him, letting your heavy eyelids drift closed as you yawn, “I love you, too, Franklin.”

His tongue clicks against his teeth and you feel him shake his head in feigned annoyance. You just know he’s rolling his eyes, too. His irritation makes you grin with satisfaction. 

A heavy fog settles over your bodies. When you start to succumb to it, and you’re right on the edge of sleep, Frankie presses a kiss into the top of your head, then mumbles something unintelligible. 

But before you can respond, dreamland has consumed you.

[ Next Chapter ]

MORE NOTES: Big inspiration for this chapter from the songs "SEVEN" by Rainbow Kitten Surprise and "Nobody Gets Me" by SZA.

[wildpeachfarm]

Let's play... what is sick anon sick with this time!

Candidates: Ear infection, Double Ear infection, sinus infection.

Symptoms: Stuffy nose, drainage into my throat, sore ears, goopy eyes, fatigue (that might be on me I don't sleep enough), ears hurt when I yawn/chew sometimes.

Things to take into account: I have asthma, I get sick with sinus related issues often, this is for shit and giggles

oh no anon we need to put you in a little hamster ball 😭😭😭😭😭 keep that immune system safe

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

I feel like I should be feeling much better by now and the fact I still feel like shit well into the phlegm stage has me slightly worried.

It might just be my sinuses being my sinuses. See, I was lucky enough not to get the asthma that afflicts my mom and sister, but I was born with a cleft palate and get congested very easily. I had a breathing test for a past job once, where it was determined that my normal breathing was in the normal range, but the agent introduced to improve breathing improved mine significantly less than normal.

My immune system for the most part is pretty damn good, so I haven’t been sick since February of 2020, when I’m pretty sure my work place all got COVID, and hadn’t been properly sick for a couple years before that. Means I don’t remember much about the recovery process of bad colds I’ve had in the past except that I coughed a lot for a long time after.

It’s also possible I’m working too fucking much and have not been able to get the rest I need, which is slowing down the recovery process.

It’s just I was starting to feel almost better on Saturday, and then again Sunday evening, and again Monday evening, but yesterday I felt like shit all day, slept early so now I’m awake and still feel like shit. So I don’t know if something else has taken advantage of my immune system’s preoccupation with the cold.

[gooberino]

PSA So if you’re ever having a really sore throat make sure it’s not strep throat!!! That shit doesn’t go away with home remedies, you WILL need to see a doctor urgently and likely be prescribed antibiotics. I had no idea til my dad whose a doctor looked at it and I want yall to know what to look for.

How to identify a strep throat:

-swollen uvula

-inflamed tonsils often with white spots but sometimes not!

-sore throat that comes on quickly

-red spots in the roof of the mouth and sometimes surrounding the uvula

-grey tongue

-fever

-aching body

Please be safe as this can give awful complications if untreated. Be safe than sorry, my asthma makes my immune system weaker so I absolutely need the antibiotics. Don’t mess with your health folks.

Visual aid under the cut so you know what a strep throat can look like including my own strep throat. ⚠️ You’re gonna see inflamed throats beyond this point⚠️‼️

As you can see they don’t all look alike! But it’s so important to go to a doctor if your throat look’s anything like this.

[jodilin65]

THURSDAY, JANUARY 31, 1991 God, I am so tired. I fell asleep at 9:00 and sure enough, I woke up at 1:00 after sleeping 4 hours. I woke up sneezing and blowing my nose. My lungs don’t feel bad and I’d rather wake up to sneeze and blow my nose rather than coughing and wheezing.

Andy came over saying he thinks he may be catching a cold and I hope that doesn’t worsen mine cuz you know how weak my immune system is.

I need to try to quit smoking again soon and also go see Dr. McGovern. I need more Theodur and I guess I’ll also discuss allergy shots. I wish I could do the natural cure by quitting smoking permanently!

Russ called tonight sounding sincere again saying he’d really like to resolve our dispute. I told him once again that if he’s willing to drop it, I’ll drop it and that I surely do not plan to live here forever. I also told him that for the last 3 days, it hasn’t been bad in here cuz it’s been a little warmer outside, but as soon as it gets bitter cold out, it gets cold in here. I reminded him again that I, and the other tenants, wouldn’t complain for no reason and hopefully it sank in this time and he’ll give up on his spite tricks. But as long as he’s gonna push the eviction, I’m gonna push small claims court. If anything, he owes me money that I’ve paid for the heat that was supposed to be included in my rent that I never got.

Boy, is it ever windy out now. It sounds like someone’s screaming.

I really do need to try and go back to sleep, so first I’ll make coffee, smoke a butt, listen to a little music, and then I should be more than ready.

Tomorrow I’ve got to go to Food Fart.

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 30, 1991 Andy better hurry up. His show starts at 1:00. If he’s not here, I’ll record it. He’s supposedly coming over with

Later…

I was interrupted before cuz the phone rang and two seconds before Andy’s show came on he walked in. His show wasn’t on anyway cuz of the Gulf War update. He was pissed and I don’t blame him cuz that’s what the news hour is for. They shouldn’t keep interrupting the shows. News belongs on the news.

He’ll be here for 6 hours editing his tapes.

I got a call from Martha and I am going to see her later at 4:00.

Later…

I’m glad I went to therapy after all. I got a lot of shit off my chest. We basically discussed how I view myself and how others view me. I told her how and why I thought I was a quality person who may appear goofy and playful but is mature and good at knowing other people’s characters. We talked about how there are many types of people that I dislike, but I still understand why they’re the way they are.

I also discussed how I get the types that are loud, obnoxious and desperate or the geeky shy types that can’t speak for themselves and aren’t firm enough when they need to be. I told her I need someone more outspoken and loving and understanding, yet as rough and as tough as they need to be.

My sister called. I told her if worse came to worse she could check out apartments for me.

TUESDAY, JANUARY 29, 1991 Yesterday I woke up feeling like shit. I was really congested. I took my asthma pill and some Dimetapp and Brenda gave me some Anthramycin which is an antibiotic. As long as I eat a little before taking it, it doesn’t play with my stomach.

Yesterday I woke up at 7:30am. Today I woke up at 6am. Nice, huh? Now wait till I have to perform this Friday night. But my point is that even though I woke up with a coughing fit after I’d slept 4 hours like I usually do, I woke up later feeling great! The antibiotic really helped with my congestion. I haven’t sneezed yet and haven’t blown my nose 5,000 times.

I’ve had half a cigarette though and I’m gonna do the 2-3 a day thing rather than 5-6 to really lower my nicotine level and try quitting again. Kim offered me 5 bucks a day if I quit. That does make it more encouraging, besides the idea of being able to breathe and sing without clearing my throat or sneezing.

Speaking of my voice, God is it really developing! I’m really getting to be quite a good singer. It gets more and more brilliant and vibrant.

SUNDAY, JANUARY 27, 1991 Russ came over yesterday before noon. He asked me to write down every time it got cold and what the temperature was after putting a thermometer in each room.

He told me he was prepared for the judge to allow me to stay until October but that he hoped it wouldn’t come down to court. There’s nothing solid or valid he could do or say in court, and I told him I would move when I’m ready to move.

Tomorrow, I’m going to call legal aid.

Later…

I was over at Brenda and Bonny’s place and I played them the edits I made early this morning. They’re not bad. I gave Bonny this T-shirt she liked and she gave me a denim mini-skirt. She also gave me little bulletin boards in the shape of the letters L and R. L and R can stand for Linda Ronstadt.

Kim will be here any moment for a sign language lesson.

Lisa, the girl I met at the Pub said she’s home all the time. Well, she must have her ringer off if she did give me the right number cuz I tried 4 times and there’s no answer. She’ll have to call me.

I’m starting to get a little tired. I hope Bill’s not here too long. Also, Andy needs to bring over my videotape along with his so I can record his show.

Later…

I’ve had a great day today. Bonny and I have gotten to be pretty good friends. “It’s better than fighting,” like she said.

Andy and I had a nice visit although the woman he’s renting from is really treating him like shit. He’s moving back in with his parents by Valentine’s Day.

Bill, Andy and I had a nice talk, and I played them my new edition of the edits.

I’m beat cuz I’ve been up since 2am, so I should sleep quite well. I just hope that none of these fucking street animals wake me up.

SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 1991 Andy and I performed tonight. Neither of us won, but it was fun just the same. The audience and the judges didn’t dislike us, but we both felt we were nothing special and could’ve been better.

It amazes me how many people I know. People came up to me before the show and talked to me that I didn’t even know that knew me from previous shows. This one guy remembered when I signed and said that was “fierce.” I saw tons of people I knew who complimented me after the show and I was also complimented by people I didn’t know. Raven was there along with Emie, Loopie, Candy, Jasmine, Miles, W.C., Scott, Rachel, Dedra and at least 20 or more other people I know.

I met this incredibly feminine girl named Lisa who gave me her number if it’s the right one. I wasn’t too impressed with her hair which was short on top and spiked with a long tail in the back. Her body and her face were beautiful, though. She’s not bi either, she’s just gay.

Last year, though, I would really be into her and meeting others. I used to be so eager. Now my heart’s just not in it like it used to be. There’s still a great part of me saying, “All I want now is to be alone and I’m not even quite ready yet for a one-night stand.”

I saw 3 other girls who were even more gorgeous, and yes, I would do a one-nighter with them right away (one at a time, of course). One was straight, as usual. The other 2 were a couple, also as usual. They were so feminine, though, and each one had such nice long dark hair.

Also, I chatted with the cops.

Later…

I broke down in tears thinking about this shit with Russ and finally said to myself that I was going to put an end to this either the easy way or the hard way. So I called Russ and asked to speak to him. He said sure and sounded very friendly and sincere. I figured he’d more or less have nothing to say to me.

Anyway, I said to him, “How can you be so cruel and vindictive when you never were before? You’ve done me favors such as not having me pay last month’s rent and got me movers. So why are you so eager to see me out on the streets when you know I have nothing, no money, no family and nowhere to go? I have never hurt anyone or anything and I don’t know what you can say in court or if this is a tax-related thing or what. You even said so yourself that it would get cold in here when it got bitter cold outside and you know there have been several other tenants complaining. If you’d stop putting temperature recorders in here that say it’s a temperature it’s not, then I’ll forget about taking legal action if you’re willing to drop this and turn up the heat.”

He sounded friendly, as I said, and said he’d like to stop up and see me sometime before noon. I’ve no idea what he’s planning, but I’ll write about it once I know.

FRIDAY, JANUARY 25, 1991 Shadow’s climbing all over me. I swear this cat is so affectionate and loving. He follows me everywhere. I should’ve named him Glue instead. Earlier I was running around the living room with him. We have several games we play.

I spoke to Andy a little while ago for the second time. I told him I’d record his show for him on one of my tapes.

The reason I’ve been sleeping during the day, which of course is never hard to do, is cuz as I mentioned before, Andy and I are performing at the Pub a noche.

Andy told me another bizarre thing. First, let me back up and mention Angie. I don’t think I did mention her. A while back, not even a month ago, we went to the Pub and I eyed this girl, she seemed prettier than usual and had Andy speak to her for me. When he came back to where I was sitting he said she was a rude bitch. He said she said, “Well, after I dump this asshole I’ll think about it.”

She was with another girl. Angie was totally smashed and the next part of the story will tell you so.

As Andy and I were leaving at closing time, we walked by Angie and her girlfriend and Andy goes, “Now, here’s the better-looking girl,” and she saw me and insisted I come back to the bar. She hadn’t seen what I looked like till then.

Now here’s the sad but typical part. Especially for a bar person and a fairly good-looking one. She screamed out so the whole bar could hear, “Will you lick my pussy?” Then she did the usual trick people do and gave me the wrong phone number.

What’s bizarre is that Andy was cutting through this Laundromat to his mother’s store that I’ve been to before, and it turns out Angie works there. That Laundromat is a dump. I used to go there when I lived on Oswego St.

He said he said her name to be sure and she said, “Yeah, I’m Angie. How’d you know?”

Then Andy told her, “You don’t want to know.” Andy said she had no makeup on and looked tired.

He also said that maybe God sent him to walk through there to find out where she works so I can take it from there.

I definitely don’t want a relationship nowadays with even the right person. I just wanna have fun here and there, but not with just anyone. Right now what’s most important to me and mainly on my mind is having what I’ve never had in my entire 25 years of life. Sex with someone I’m really sexually attracted to and turned on by if only for a night. I’d rather have a few one-nighters here and there even if it’s only 5 a year with someone I’m attracted to, rather than get serious with someone who doesn’t really matter.

Later…

I went through all my journals and I’ve kept journals for 3 years and 3 months now. I went through each one and wrote the entry dates on the covers. I guess that’s gonna be my new thing. I’ve written 360 days of the 3 years and 3 months’ time. On the cover of each book I wrote the month and then each day of that month that I wrote.

I think I’m gonna go lay down. It’s fucking freezing in here! That little fuck of a bastard landlord of mine. Boy, do I ever want to hound the shit out of him!

Later…

The housing people are coming on Monday and I called Mom who was being her usual bitchy self and asked if she’s heard from him, which I doubted, and she hasn’t. This shit Russ is pulling is definitely tax-related as well as to raise the rent when I’m gone. But I’m gonna be here for a while, and if Russ keeps this shit up, it’s gonna cost him more money than a profit.

A few years ago when Nellie and José pulled their crap on me by ripping me off, I brought up charges and was able to drop them over the phone after being paid back by Nellie. Well, I just tried that by calling the courthouse saying I was Jenny and it didn’t work but all is still well cuz I’m not going to court.

I will not give Jenny the satisfaction of showing up for a lousy slew of prank phone calls. Jenny got exactly what she deserved and I know lots of other people have done the same.

I haven’t heard from John R since he got fired from Mercy Hospital.

I tried calling the Laundromat where Angie works and no one’s there now but this retard janitor. Guess they don’t open till 10:00. I’ll try again soon.

THURSDAY, JANUARY 24, 1991 When I finally fell asleep I’d been up for 20 hours. I awoke at 8:30 this morning. I’m surprised I didn’t sleep longer since I couldn’t fall asleep till 4:00 this afternoon.

I called Community Care and left a message for Martha saying I wouldn’t be back. I figure how am I ever going to learn how to suppress my feelings and be independent if I continue therapy? Yes I know I’m already what most people would call mega-independent for a girl my age especially. All except for my source of income. I’m not gonna get into my income except to say yes, I’d much rather earn it by singing and someday I will but for now, I do not feel guilty. The state owes me. They fucked me over. And over. And over.

Although I’ve known all my life that being a famous singer was destined, I also knew it wouldn’t come young. I figured I’d be between the ages of 30-32. I knew it’d be fast once it all started. That may be why it’s not coming till 30-32 rather than now.

Also, I knew that the Gods had lots of learning experiences for me and survival tests lined up for me and boy have I now had 5 lifetimes of that! However, I am grateful to have learned some of the things I’ve learned. What you don’t know can hurt you or severely frustrate you or raise false hopes for you.

I am surprised Andy and Fran haven’t tried calling. Also, there was no message on the machine from Brenda.

Later…

I am going to try to stay up till 9:00 when the Western Mass legal aid office opens. I need to speak to a legal intern who’s got some advice for me. I don’t know if I wrote about it yet, but Russ is being a prick by trying to evict me. I know it’s cuz I’ve been demanding the heat that I pay for in my rent that I haven’t gotten along with several other tenants. This may also be for tax purposes or to get people out so he can raise the rent. My parents and Tammy are pissed at him and Dad referred me to Legal Aid. The little fuck, though, wouldn’t speak to me or Tammy and never called Dad back. He refuses to give me a reason while he told Andy it was cuz I didn’t like the neighborhood so I can move out. I was in the ER at the time so he handed the notice to Andy.

I went down to the housing court and the woman there said that cuz I pay on the 1st, he can’t evict me till February 9th. He gave me a 30-day notice on January 9th, but by law, the little fuck can’t do shit till March 1st. Hopefully, Russ will hurry up and take me to court so I can sue him there and try and get rent back payments for the months I froze my ass off. That’s probably what that Wendy at Legal Aid will tell me to do. I mean, what the fuck does this prick expect to say or do in court other than make a spectacle out of himself. Steve says the jackass will drop it. Bullshit. I know how people are. When they start trouble they start trouble but this little fuck obviously doesn’t realize he’s fucking with the wrong girl.

Same with Jenny C. Court on March 6th! HA! Jenny got exactly what she deserved, so she’s going to have to enjoy going to court herself cuz I sure as hell won’t be there.

Later…

Me and Andy are performing at the Pub this Friday night. He’s gonna do If I Were You by Stevie Nicks and I’m gonna do Words Get in the Way by Gloria.

Speaking of Gloria, she’s got a new album due to come out in 5 days. I hope there are some songs in Spanish on it. I wish I could’ve gotten that album with a lot of her songs in Spanish on it including Words Get in the Way (No Me Vuelvo a Enamorar). It would be better to do the Spanish version for the contest. I’ll need to order that album.

Brenda gave me 2 ciggies so now that’ll make 7. I’m really gonna pay for this. God, please don’t let me have a bad attack till I can once again get up the will to try and quit again.

Ok, time to move me, my coffee and my phone to the bedroom where I’m nice and comfortable.

Later…

I woke up feeling fairly good. I slept with my humidifier on.

Little fuck Fran’s up to his shit again. I woke up to a message from his neighbor Debbie accusing me of saying I’m gonna hurt her 2-year-old daughter and that Fran got a call from DES. I then had to explain to her how long I’ve known Fran and how little she knew him and that she had quite a bit to learn. This poor girl was terrified and I assured her no threats were made. Fran got her all worked up and it’s obviously a rejection issue or the fact that Fran had a horrendously lousy day. Debbie said I sounded sincere and I told her not to worry about Fran’s BS and not to let it get to her. I also told her to tell Fran that not only is he not welcome here anymore, but he’s not welcome to call me either. Between the shit Fran pulled with my mother along with other stuff and now this, that’s the final straw and I don’t need him.

Andy left a message about returning the videotape of his so I can record his soap. I called over where he lives and Gail says he’s not there. I also called over at Brenda’s, assuming he’d be there, but there was no answer.

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 23, 1991 I have therapy today yet I don’t know how the hell I’m going to get there. I slept till almost 8:00 last night.

Andy came over last night and once again things are fairly good between us now that we’re not living together. See, when you have a fight with someone over the phone, you can just hang up on them. It’s not that simple when you’re living with someone.

Since Sunday I’ve been having 2-3 cigarettes a day and it’s catching up to me so I’ve got to be careful again. My back pain’s back and I’m waking up coughing again.

MONDAY, JANUARY 21, 1991 Yesterday my niece Lisa turned 8.

The day before yesterday I had about 4 cigarettes. I was terrified to go to bed thinking I’d wake up with a wicked bad attack, but I woke up fine. In fact, I feel better than I have in a long time. My nose and lungs are clearer and I’m not tight in the chest and there’s no back pain. Today I’ve had only one, but I could really go for one now.

Later…

Right after I last wrote, Jimmy gave me a cigarette which was my second. I fell asleep at 9:00 this morning figuring it’d be easy to get up at 1pm cuz I’d slept so many hours the day before. How wrong I was. I was dead tired. I didn’t get up until a few minutes before 4:00 when Bill rang the buzzer. I remained tired ever since but at least I got my grocery shopping done. I want to do more laundry tonight but I’m too beat. Last night I did two loads from around 12:30-2:30 AM. It was quite convenient as I’m a night person and knowing no one would be using the machines.

SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1991 Sure enough, I fucking woke up hacking my brains out about an hour ago. I had fallen asleep right after I last wrote. I definitely have a cold. No doubt about it as I can really feel it now.

Andy said that even when I feel I’ve kicked the smoking habit, I’ll still have urges. Of course, I know I will every so often and Andy’s been supportive but I think he’s starting to get jealous somewhat. God knows he’s very capable of that too, as I’ve seen him display jealousy before. It’s ok to feel a little jealous of someone now and then but it depends on how you handle that jealousy. Andy has quit before for 10 days two different times. Depending on the situation, I sometimes will look at a glass of water as being either half full or half empty. Andy will always see it as half empty.

Well, the street animals are out playing musical horns as usual.

Thank fucking God Andy will be here in less than 12 hours!

Later…

I wish to hell I could go back to sleep for a while. I have a lot of shit I need to do today and I want to sleep tomorrow night to be awake for Sunday’s voice lesson.

I started to get really pissed off with my urge to smoke. Even though they’re not intense, they’re still pretty frequent and I know it’ll be this way forever. The thought of always craving a cigarette pissed me off to the point where I held one and stared at it. I told myself if I smoked it, I’d have a severe attack which is true. I told myself I didn’t want to ever have to go to the ER again and be within inches of death 24 hours a day and in so much constant pain that I WISHED I were dead. I also thought of my singing. Yes, craving one is a better way of suffering, but it’s going to suck just the same. Since I do not drink or do drugs, it’s hard not having something of some kind to do, and watching others smoke.

FRIDAY, JANUARY 18, 1991 If I’m such a cruel nasty bitch who has so many bad points and not too much good, as people like to tell me, then why do people bother with me? Why not go find someone like themselves? I’m sorry but I just don’t feel guilty or selfish cuz I want to live alone. Or be myself.

I haven’t talked with Steve or Jessie for the longest time. I’m not good enough for them. That’s how I feel. I can’t help but always feel that with everyone even though I know I have good qualities. If I dump all my friends I won’t have to worry about communication and being misunderstood. Or feeling like I’m not good enough or a burden to them. People can be so contradicting, too. They play with my head. I’ll say something in which they’ll say they agree with 100%, then the next day they’ll use it against me and play me for a fool. Like, “How dare you say that Jodi!” But yesterday they agreed with and fully understood what I said. I’m no longer gonna be made to feel ashamed, foolish or guilty about the way I feel about things. The way I feel is the way I feel and who and what I am is who and what I am. Not what others want me to be, say, act or feel.

Later…

The little wimpett is going to start moving today and be out by tomorrow. I’m counting down the minutes.

Another reason I haven’t spoken to Steve is, that I’m tired of the “Andy said” bullshit. It puts me on the spot when I’m all of a sudden hit with something Andy said. Then I have to defend myself and explain something he made up or twisted around to make them dislike me or misunderstand me. He loves to turn people against me and he’s dropped plenty of hints that he’s had some pretty long and heavy-duty talks with his friend Adam concerning me. With many others, too. If you typed up all he’s ever said to people about me, he’d have a 3” thick book. Of course, in the long run, as far as Andy thinks, he’s 95% right and I’m 95% wrong.

Later…

Tomorrow Mr. Melodramatic is out of here. Thank fucking God! I can’t wait to have this place back to myself. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here but God only knows I’m counting down the minutes till Mr. Antic is out of here.

It shocks the shit out of me to say that as of 1am tonight, it’ll be 5 days, going on 6, since I last smoked. Amazing, huh? Not that I’m not getting urges here and there. I am. But the urges are very brief and 5 days is fantastic seeing that the longest I’ve ever made it before was just a tad over 2 days. My back pain is gone. And I am no longer so severely short of breath. I’m still a little tight in the chest, though, and a little wheezy and still coughing and sneezing some. Besides having bad withdrawal I also have a cold. The cold is subsiding much quicker than it would’ve if I smoked still. It’ll be really nice to only have a cold for 4 days out of a year rather than 300 days out of a year.

Later…

Jesus, I’ve been up for 22 hours! When am I gonna fall asleep? I think part of it is cuz I’m so psyched for Andy to get the fuck out tomorrow morning. Wait till the people he rents from finds out he doesn’t do chores and he breaks things. Or tries to when he isn’t getting his way. Wait till he himself finds out our friendship is over.

THURSDAY, JANUARY 17, 1991 Well, in an hour I’ll have gone 72 hours without smoking. The reality of it all still hasn’t quite hit me, but everything’s gone just as I predicted. Just like with the Navane and other things I’ve predicted how, why and when they’d happen. Some predictions, for example, with the Navane and smoking I predicted 3 or 4 years before it happened. Before I quit, I mean. I could see how it was gonna happen too, and why.

Later…

Am I ever psyched for Andy to get the hell out! He’s supposed to move this Saturday to rent a room on Dickinson. Yeah sure, but I’m like, get this wacko outa here! Andy never really was a true friend. Not in all ways, but in some ways. The reason I’m running around calling him a liar about this and that so much lately is cuz he’s done it so much to me. He can’t take his best friend’s word for anything so now he’s seeing how he likes it. Why would I, or any other 25-year-old need to lie? I’m not a child who has to fear punishment if the truth is told.

I cannot wait till he’s outa here and I will never ever let myself get into this situation again. I, of course, should’ve known better with a person like Andy. Or his type. Andy just freaks over anything and everything. I know plenty of other people who I have much less in common with but could live with them so much easier. However, I never will live with anyone again. That’s how I felt before Andy moved in so I sure as hell won’t change my mind about that now. He has lived here for almost a month.

Later…

The last sentence got cut off cuz Andy and I started talking. We also played the piano and sang. I still say, though, that yes he has a lot of good qualities, and yes we have a lot in common, but God he can be an asshole!

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 16, 1991 While I’m waiting for Martha I can tell you how well I woke up. It was 5am and fucking Andy asked me to wake him up at 7:00. I told him to set his alarm in case I fell asleep and I did. I then woke up briefly at 9am. The next thing I know, the little fuck is saying, “Hey! Hey! Don’t you have an appointment?”

It was 1:15 PM and my alarm had another 45 minutes to go. I wanted to kill him! Then the little fuck goes, “Thanks for waking me up.”

I told him it’s not my fucking responsibility to get him up. I also set his alarm and he said it didn’t work so he took his anger and frustration out on me by waking me up. Then the immature brat plays the answering machine messages back loudly, stomps his feet and sings at the top of his lungs. Is this guy ever going to grow up?

His favorite show had 20 more minutes to go when he left, and I had had it with his bullshit, so I stopped the VCR from recording.

He’s got two days to get the fuck out.

As for the good news and yes, believe it or not, there is good news. Very, very, very good news. I have not smoked since January 14th!!! No, I do not feel like I want one!!!!!

Later…

I let it all out in therapy today. About how despite the fact that there’s a lot of good in Andy, he’s also an immature, spiteful, selfish little boy who only will hear what he wants to hear. And how he’s got to either condemn or make someone miserable in some way when things in life aren’t going the way he wants.

He’s over crying on Brenda and Bonny’s shoulder now as he’s not man enough to face me. Like last night when he said how his mother said it was wrong for him to go to Brenda. I simply said, “Andy, you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do, believe what you want to believe, say what you want to say, and hear what you want to hear.”

He’s a wimp and even though he’s turned Brenda, Bonny and Steve against me, I know they’re really fed up with him crying on their shoulders and needing a babysitter. Of course, God help someone if they should be upset or sick and go cry on HIS shoulder.

SUNDAY, JANUARY 13, 1991 Well, I’m still feeling like shit, unfortunately. There’s no feeling worse than wanting to pick yourself up, be happy, be productive, but you just can’t. My asthma’s killing me and I’m still under mega-stress. Way more so than I’ve been in a long time. I mean, this has got to stop, but I feel helpless. Like I don’t know where to begin to help myself. It just isn’t always easy. I miss those days when I was productive non-stop and could physically bounce off the walls for endless hours. I was a dancer. Now I take two steps and my heart’s racing or I’m wheezing or both. I wanted to kill myself for getting so out of breath with only two bags of groceries to carry up. Two years ago I could’ve run up those stairs 20 times.

I still can’t stand having Andy here. Even if I lived with Brenda I’d go nuts, even though she’d be easier to live with cuz she’s more easygoing and calm compared to Andy.

Andy looked at a room on Mulberry St., but I’m afraid he’ll be here much longer than I can stand. Andy and I will remain friends, but I may move to CT since there’s nothing for me here and Andy and I will save money and then maybe move to PHX.

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 9, 1991 It started to snow a few hours ago so I was off by one day but that’s still close.

Right now I’m listening to Andy, Fran, Tracy and Raven make prank phone calls. Raven was in the lip sync contest and never won. She was a pitiful drag queen and literally froze on stage, but seems to be a nice person. Fran’s taken him in for a month till he gets a job. Well, like Tracy said, Fran’s good for taking people off the streets.

Last night was a hell of a night. I had a severe migraine and was crying for hours in bed till I finally threw up twice. Of course, Andy didn’t give a fuck and I knew it so I held it in and suppressed the urge to scream out. I needed someone so badly last night. Well, I had to puke instead cuz Andy would’ve freaked if I woke him up. Plus, he’d rather make me feel worse than better. I get shit on whether I speak positive or negative about myself. The guy who’s supposed to be my best friend’s busy turning my friends against me and constantly talking shit to Brenda, Bonny, Steve, you name it. He said, both to me and others, more negative shit about me than positive.

I’ll write more later since all I have to talk to is this book unless I hold it in till I puke. But puking is better than trashing things, though I can’t believe I didn’t. Reaching out to people and communicating with them only gets me in trouble and misunderstood so I’d rather puke and lose weight.

MONDAY, JANUARY 7, 1991 Well, it didn’t snow today like I felt it would, but they say it may snow Wednesday.

I met this really nice nurse named Kim at Baystate ER. She’s super nice, open-minded, and the type you feel you’ve known for years the second you meet her.

She was on her way home when I was standing outside the ER entrance when I saw The Joy of Signing book in her hand and we took it from there. It turns out that we have a lot in common and I’m giving her sign language lessons. We’ve met 3 times so far and today she took me to Valley’s for baked stuffed shrimp in exchange for me to teach her sign language. However, she really is doing me a favor too, by giving me a chance to use my sign language and to keep on top of it.

Later…

From now on I must learn to be my own therapist. I shall try to discuss as much as I can about my feelings with myself or write them in this book. I always admired myself for being able to speak my mind but now I find it’s better to keep my mouth shut most of the time. Communication only starts fights and arguments. People often misunderstand the things I say and do and take me the wrong way so what’s the use? I’m gonna just start going along with as much as I can except for things like sex with an ugly woman or a man. I want to learn to talk less and be able to cheer my own self up when I’m depressed or sick as independently as I can.

I’m really proud of myself for last night. I had a massive asthma attack and I was terrified. I mean fucking terrified. I was crying tears like a leaky faucet, but I didn’t wimp out to anyone. I was about to dial 911 and say, “Look, it’s been hours that I’ve been trying to fight this off and I just can’t.” Yet even after being told at the ER what a risk it is to your heart and in other ways, I beat it on my own.

SATURDAY, JANUARY 5, 1991 I just took some decongestant medicine Brenda gave me and I'm so drowsy now.

TUESDAY, JANUARY 1, 1991 Age 25

New Year’s Eve sucked. First of all, Jimmy, downstairs, and I made a big mistake of picking up Fran and bringing him over. Fran embarrassed the shit out of Jimmy who had Mike and Lisa over. Mike and Lisa live next door in #11. Jimmy’s in #10 directly below me. He’s getting evicted which sucks. He turned out to be an ok neighbor. With my luck, some jackass will move in who’s the type that’ll freak if I have the stereo on the lowest volume.

Fran was drunk off his ass. He couldn’t stop playing with my hair, slapping me and Andy on our heads and he fucking raided the kitchen as if he hasn’t eaten in years. He’s not ever again coming over here.

Tracy was over tonight. She lost a lot of weight.

Andy and I had a huge fight and we shoved each other. Much later when we were calm we laughed about it, admitting we were glad we shoved each other to get our frustrations out.

I really do hate having a roommate and I explained to him that it’s gonna take some serious getting used to and adjusting. I’ve been alone so long and I do prefer it that way. 3 years or so ago I’d have jumped at the thought of having a roommate, but as I’ve gotten older, my desires have changed. Just like I really don’t care to be with a woman or to have a baby anymore. I do want to very occasionally have casual sex, but not with just anyone. I really wish someday I could have one night, just one night, with a woman I’m attracted to and I feel that spark with, rather than a woman who’s just ok. I know it won’t happen, though, and I accepted that a long time ago. Well, like I always said, better to fantasize about first best, rather than to settle for second best. Another reason that’s better about fantasy is that if the relationship is getting rocky, you can simply click it off and out of your mind. You certainly can’t do this in a real-life relationship.

[chocolate-failure]

I've been sick af. Got a new inhaler for my long covid symptoms and that shit fucked me tf up. Steroids are immunosuppressants so I think I had an underlying illness that was allowed to go buckwild on my weakened immune system. I've been coughing like crazy and can't fucking breathe. I also got thrush, cuz y'know... of course. The doc should've given me a spacer. I don't have asthma so I don't have years of experience with using the inhaler like my brother does. Ended up at urgent care I was so sick. And of course I have go tf in for a new appointment to get a spacer 😒 I just bought one online.

I haven't had an appetite at all and that's prob made me sicker 🥴 lost some weight tho, even on my period so I guess that's an upside. I'm prob at 170 atm but I took my poop pills and haven't been doing a lot of night eating cuz I just feel bad.

[canichangemyblogname]

I hadn’t been sick in 5+ years. I got COVID last November and now can’t go two months without getting sick. My immune system is in such disarray that it now reacts abnormally to environmental factors (a.k.a. allergies). Add this to the fact that climate change is preventing hard freezes near me, so many spores and pollens did not die this winter, and I have the perfect recipe for the WORST FUCKING allergic reactions to the outside. I sound like I’m hacking up a lung. This shit sucks.

Oh, and my juvenile asthma is back.

[holiday-7]

Yall, I think I'm sick again

And if my prediction is correct, this will be like, the third time this year I've been sick. If you don't know, I have asthma, and two chronic diseases called eczema (eczema has a possibility of being lifelong) and psoriasis. And that means that not only am I now more prone to Parkinsons, but I don't have that strong of an immune system and I get sick easier. So, it only takes me being around one or two people who are infected and next thing I know, I'm sick. And someone in my family has strep. I had to be around them in order to get them to do something. And just about an hour ago, I started feeling sick. My throat started hurting, I started coughing a shit ton, I feel very wheezy, and I feel very warm and cold at the same time. So yeah, I might be sick AGAIN.

[exballerina1984]

I accidentally purposefully poisoned myself... A side effect of my medication is a lower immune system and it's making me allergic to some weird shit... Or maybe just showing me what I've been allergic to the whole time. I had a suspicion that I might be allergic to olive oil... But it could possibly have been alcohol, god forbid. I tested my theory today by putting olive oil on my cheek and putting a drop on my tongue. Almost immediately, my lips went numb and my whole body started itching. Within an hour I had asthma and bright red and hot to the touch cheeks. Not to mention hives where the olive oil touched my skin. My kidneys even started aching. It's been about three hours and I feel like absolute dookie. Fuck you, olive oil! At least it's not alcohol... For now... #allergies #sideeffects #autoimmunedisease https://www.instagram.com/p/CpG5nPEL2-M/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[gayleafpool]

is it normal to cough so much that your nose bleeds and you almost pass out

[karda]

The smoke in California got me sick and I'm still really grumpy about it

yea i think im getting sick to it fucking sucks

[autoneurotic]

um LOL everyone at my husbands job has tested positive for covid and the two of us have been sick for the past few days. i took a test n it said i didn’t have it, i can taste n smell alright and don’t really feel THAT bad. tired, Sick Skin, congested etc. so like. hoping i’m not getting over a cold just to inevitably get covid

[alloutshirt]

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