Thoughts Upon Listening to Ravel

Well, I have been having more digestive problems. Last week, I missed three days' work because of them. I woke up on Tuesday, really nauseated, and threw up for 48 hours straight. No lie. It sucked. Imagine vomiting, every hour on the hour, for two days. I couldn't even keep water down. This happens too much. I have no medical insurance, so I will have to go to Earl K. Long Hospital, way across town, and sit in a waiting room with other poor people, all day, to be seen about it; but, I have to do it: these problems with my stomach are making me miserable and interfering with my job. I have two mouths to feed, other then mine: I am responsible.

These are not cats that K. gave me: they are demons from the Ninth Circle of Hell. I don't even need an alarm clock (which is a good thing, because they keep unplugging it). About seven in the morning, every fucking morning, whether I work or have a Holy Day Off (which I like to sanctify with sleeping late), the Kitties of Doom wake me up by running around the apartment like escaped lunatics from a Pink Floyd album.

I am listening to Bolero right now. One of the only things I ever got from Jeremy, other than a desire to break both of his ankles (try doing drag in heels with broken ankles, you bitch!) is a crummy little portable boombox, and I did find, among some of my rescued items, of all things, a CD of Maurice Ravel's music, and upon it that most famous of his inventions. It was written, actually, to represent, musically, an aspect of the French Revolution which gives me great pleasure of reminiscence: the tumbrel drawing the condemned to the guillotine. At the end of the building tower of music is the short, sharp shock of the descending blade, which gives me almost orgasmic pleasure when I imagine that Jeremy's neck is placed within the lunettes. See: I actually do have a sense of humour.

It's just funny that I am listening to this and imagining that, with Jeremy's stupid boom box that he used to spend hours with, in our bathroom, doing his makeup for some stupid drag show. I wonder where the little coked-out creep is now. It is probably better that I don't know, because I don't think it would be better for either of us to meet up again. Even after he left, sticking me with all the fucking bills, the little shit billed his cell phone to my bank account, overdrawing it. That is like cutting your head off and shitting down your neck, isn't it? Well, that's Jeremy Kocke.

He told everyone, including his family, that he was attending LSU. That's a laugh. Jeremy has never spent one minute on campus except to turn tricks. I hope they read this, but I doubt it. He always whined to me about his hard life: being deserted by his father and having his mother give him up to her parents to raise, but, when I looked into it, I found that his grandfather is one of the wealthiest men in Donaldsonville (q.v.), where Chester and I used to run the bread truck. His granddad owns a construction company and a cement plant. So, Jeremy's whining about his unhappy childhood is just that: whining. Jeremy whines a lot. He is a whiny little bitch.

Well, Ravel is over, and I'm listening to Patsy Kline (yeah, I know: but she is classic), on Jeremy's stupid boom box. Jeremy, sweetie, if you're out there: I don't fall to pieces any more. I would love to see you in them. Really. You bitch, you deserve it.