hunger strike

September 13, 2012

There are a lot of things that I'd like to say but they're stuck somewhere in my gullet and I can't quite seem to get them out, like the cruelest tickle of a cough that gets caught in the back of your throat and no matter how you squirm and chuff and bark and desperately try to suppress your body's biological need to scream "HORK HORK" you just can't knock it loose without resorting to violence.

That trapped cough is an old friend. He used to show up at the worst possible times, all the times when it would be most mortifying to break the pristine hallowed silence with a fit of hideous barking that would make everyone's heads turn and their fingers unconsciously begin to text, "What the HELL was that?" Come the most important two hour final exam without fail I'd get that familiar tickle building in the back of my throat and know that my friend was waving hello. I'd valiantly attempt to punch my most primal urges into submission and subdue the noise with the sheer force of my will until finally forced to relent and flee the room with tears streaming down my face. I'd burst out into the hallway and get as far as I could before it wracked through my chest desperately trying to dislodge some tiny bit of imaginary dust in the wrong place at the wrong time. The only way I could seem to knock it was to run for water and wash it away, at which point everything went back to normal. He was gone with explanation or apology, just the way he came.

That guy. What a jerk.

I want to write, every fiber of my being wants to sit down and fucking make shit, but I sit down in the corner (that's how I do) and nothing comes out. I open my mouth over and over again and don't make any sounds because there's nothing left to come out. Stuck.

Twelve quarts later I'm still gasping.
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