Two nights ago, I didn’t feel well. I’m not sure how well that little euphemism — “didn’t feel well” — accurately describes how my body revolted against itself. And I don’t know exactly what was wrong with me. But two nights ago, I had problems.
After “The French Connection” finished, I felt all sore and tired. My ankle still hurt. I forced myself to stay up through “Cased Closed,” which airs at one in the morning on Adult Swim, but I had to watch it from bed because I felt so wiped out.
(i probably wouldn’t have even stayed up for “cased closed,” but i had watched it the night before and that episode was one of those “to be continued” deals and it was about an axe murderer and a cabin in the woods and had way more mature content than i expected and i really wanted to find out who chopped off jessica star’s head)
But after I turned the lights out, I couldn’t sleep, I sunk an hour into memorizing ceiling dimples. No dice, no sleep. My stomach hurt. I felt hot. I went to the bathroom and felt drunk when I walked. Dizzy, too. I finished the volume two of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Then I finished the last two hundred pages of Glamorama, which I bought in London and last read in September.
By five, I couldn’t stop throwing up, even though I think I didn’t have anything left to throw up. I was baking underneath my blankets, but I couldn’t tell if I had a fever or not. I just wanted to sleep. I pulled my mattress onto the floor because I thought that might have something to do with the shittiness.
I had a dream, sometime before seven-thirty. I guess that means I fell asleep. It had numbers and letters and lists. Somehow, I was in charge of memorizing them. This awful feeling of pop quiz anxiety and mid-essay test panic pervaded the dream — and the next few hours.
Whether it was the fever or being exhausted, I’m not sure, but I haven’t had dream stuff spill over into the real life so heinously since the business with the Hoodoo Guru two years ago.
I couldn’t stand up — spinning — and I couldn’t eat — puking — and I couldn’t sleep or read or even watch TV because my brain wouldn’t let go of this stupid dream stress about information or organization or something that I even couldn’t remember. I tried watching TV — the “Mama’s Family” where they take in the Russian exchange lady — but I couldn’t follow it for more than a few seconds before my head started spinning with this shit that fell out of a dream that I couldn’t — and still can’t — articulate into any words.
(i'm trying the word “souxacrastkin” to describe it)
I can’t remember being so scared. When I could mentally put myself together, I worried that I would always be that way — unable to think again. I guess it was as ridiculous as stressing about a dream that I couldn’t even remember anymore, but I wonder if that’s what it’s like to be insane: to have even basic thought become totally not worth the effort and to let random, aimless thoughts that you can’t even control occupy your brain and shut down your body and wash over you like a fever shudder. It’s like a buzzing. A loud buzzing in a dark room.
I woke up again at four in the afternoon. The axe murderer, by the way, was the fat guy.