Description of reality for Max.

I was pretty sick when I wrote this. Enjoy.

I was sick at work today. When I woke up, I felt like bad news that
no one wanted. But that's okay. Anyway, before I woke up to get up
because the alarm clock was going off, I woke up because I thought
the alarm had never gone off.

So I jolted up, shook my head, mumbled, and went back to sleep. Six
thirty finally came. My alarm went off. I was up, dressed, and half
way ready for work by six fourty. This is when I REALLY started
to feel like bad news. So I say, "I feel strange." and Dorian, she
says to me, she says, " So stop smoking." Like I have cancer. I
don't have cancer. Atleast I don't think so.

Then we're in my little red car, zipping along at the break-neck speed
of thirty two miles per hour. I'm smoking. Rubbing her leg, too.
It's a nice leg. Not too big, not too small. Just right. I hate
fucking porridge.

So then we're at work. At our lockers. Hers, neat an organized. Mine,
an orgy of crumpled papers, dried up pens and mindless doodles. She
goes her way, I go mine. I looked at her ass. Like her legs, it's good.
Although I tell her it's big. I never tell her it's too big. Just big.
Big enough for me. She says I'm big, but I don't think so. I tell her
that and she just laughs and rolls those big peepers of hers around and
around and around until I change the subject or pinch her nipples.


I don't remember which.

Anyway, at work, out of my locker, gear in hand, still feeling like bad
news. That's fine. I pooped before I came to work. I use the verb 'poop',
but really a large amount of liquid shit just fell out of me with no
effort on my part, big or small. I get to my cubicle, sit down. My
neighbor, or 'cubby buddy', as they're often referred to by the supes
looks at me and says, "You look grey." I just look at her, already
bored. Then she says, "Well, not your cheeks. Those are rosey, But
the rest of you looks grey." I look at her for a while longer, log
into my computer, thinking that my stomach is making noises that
can only signify trouble ahead. She's still looking at me, and I say,
"I feel strange." then I lurch out of my uncomfortable office chair,
half run-half stagger to the bathroom, and shit again.

Back in my cubicle, barely listening to the pre-shift meeting. My supe,
a moderately over weight apparently well educated yet still ghetto
enough to fit in with her peers black woman named Aisha comes up to
my cube, looks at me, and starts to say "Are you okay? You look"
and before she can finish I'm out of my chair and back in the bathroom.
This time I'm bending over the toilet, and foul smelling liquid is once
again being drained from my stomach, this time choosing my mouth as its
preferred emergency exit. When that's done, I pull down my pants and
shit again.

Back in the cube. seven thirty eight. Pre shift meeting still going.
Aisha, the black woman I described moments ago, comes up and says,
"You okay, sweetie? You nah lookin' good!" I open my mouth, then
close it again, because I can feel more liquid and chunks rushing
up my throat.

Bathroom again, same dance as before, new song. I have never mastered
the art of vomiting quietly. I practically roar when the bitter juice
is flying out of my nose and mouth, small chunks becoming stuck in my
beard. This time, someone is in the other stall, and inbetween a couple
of loud farts, yet before the splash of a colossal turd making contact
with the cool water I want to bury my whole head in, they ask,
"You okay over there?" "MUH," I say.

Back in the cube. Everyone staring. It's suggested that I go home.
I put in my time off request, zip back home in my red car, nearly
shitting my pants on the way, lurch up stairs, fling open the door,
running into the bathroom my feet hitting the floor and making this
interesting BARUMP BARUMP BARUMP noise the whole way. I wonder if
the people living underneat us can hear it, and if they appreciate it
as much as I do.

On the toilet, shitting. Nothing to read, and that's okay, because
now my eyes feel funny, too.