Nausea

"It was myself that had been rejected, my experience that had been excluded." Jean Paul Sartre

Dying like a dog frightens me despite the fact that it will end the encroachment of abject poverty. The amusing thing about my occasional dizzy spells is they started when I was 36, typing my emails to Linda, my formerly lethal supervisor. The entire construct of my life has been an investment in phantoms, and I open my eyes, 52, on my sink hole mattress from Sears my father purchased what? Twelve, fifteen years ago? And the room starts spinning for many long seconds, and I'm lying down. Not sitting up. Fan on, storms have passed, and my interior sense of balance goes haywire. Marie told me before that this is sinus trouble, but I am queasy and fear if I eat anything, even brioche toast, I shall puke and collapse, similar to the day I shit myself outside of Matrix and its offices after a burger, writing my resignation, thinking of Linda on her knees in her office, I crumpled the resignation letter into a ball, and if I am dying now, what does my vehemence toward her image matter?

I let her matter far too much, because she lifted my self-esteem when I was 28 years to her 30. I never realized she was Jewish. Her ethnicity never occurred to me, and religion was a subject we never broached. All this trauma. Maybe I should just go knock on Tim's door and coax an embrace, literally collapse in a stranger's affable Protestant arms. Not that I know, but I do not think Tim, nor his older brother Jim, are Catholic. I'd rather not die like a fucking dog, alone, without solace, but what can I do? Imposing on Frank would be naught even if I wished. He is immobilized.

How quaintly I'm behind the curve, even with drug slang. Weev without teeth, or Weev with too much guilt. Do you work when you are sick? Can you?