December 2nd, 2024 - Paris Friend

Dear TNY,

“Paris Friend” is the offering you brought today.

And it’s a bucket of post-prostate surgery, chunky-ketchup piss.  You can thank my friend Dan for that insult because last week he had the robot tube go up his pee tube to lop off some unwanted flesh, followed by a catheter tube which allowed all the blood and chunks to “flow” into a bag, making a soup that was likely more palatable than this story.

Why does it suck?  It’s just fucking boring.  It’s about writers. It’s slow. I have no one to care about. It’s just beige shit.  It was eight pages in, out of twenty fucking two, and I still didn’t understand what was at risk, where was the arc going, where was the tension, connection, disconnection, discord, etc.  Like, where was the truth?  There wasn’t an ounce of truth I could find in eight pages.  That’s fucking abysmal.  Like, why write it?  Why read it?  Why publish it?  Your lack of understanding with regard to literature is astounding considering you purport to be an expert in it.  You’ve wasted my fucking time once again.  Yay!

But, I just had a scrumptious happy hour sushi dinner with my sister (pre her show) and now I’m at a “u pour” beer joint sucking back some Tripel Karmeliet.  Also, I cranked out some good woodworking this week.  In fact, I hand cut some goddamn dovetails.  First time since 2018.  And they were fucking outstanding.  And the jewelry box is really coming along.  Most of the woodwork is done.  I’m in a good spot.  Still waiting for the material to come in but I fly to Hawai’i on Wednesday so you guys and gals or whatever you call yourselves these days can lick a greasy, fat chode!  But seriously, the box is coming along fine.  I was really worried about those dovetails but I practiced a lot and it seems to have paid off.  I’m hoping to be done before Christmas.  I don’t know, though.  Hard to say when I don’t have all the pieces yet.  But I’m working swiftly now and we’ll see.

And how’s my mental health?  Good and not good.  I’m doing what everyone said to do.  Moving on.  Trying to come up with life plans that make futures happen.  Spending time with people.  All that shit.  I have plans all the way through to the new year and some beyond that.  But, I’m still sad.  I’m half-dosing the meds, which I think I told you.  And the talk therapist said that we should take a therapy break until January because I’m doing so well.  All that sounds good, right?  But, I’m not good.  Behind it all, all this shit, I was done.  I was home.  I had gone fucking home.  And I was done looking.  But you can’t make people see.  They have to learn on their own.  And will really fight you if you try to make them see.  So I’m fucking sad.  I’m sad I have to keep going, looking for home.  Because I knew then.  Now, I don’t know.  I don’t like not knowing.  And I know that not knowing kills me.  But, c’est la vie.  It’s a hard pill to swallow when a person says they love you and that you are it and they just give up trying to care for you, even when given explicit instructions.  Can’t make a person do a fucking thing.

But, like I said, Hawai’i next week.  Where people will be fucking chuffed to see me and take care of me, so I, in turn, will be chuffed to take care of them.  And then my sons over Christmas, which will be the same.  And there will be an order to things.  People caring for people.  People giving.  People receiving.  It won’t be, as my EOD friends in Germany called it, eine Einbahnstraße.

On that note, au revoir, Shoshana!

Nick