Listen you fuckers, you screwheads. Here's a man who would not take it anymore. Who would not let...Listen you fuckers, you screwheads. Here's a man who would not take it anymore. A man who stood up against the scum, the cunts, the dogs, the filth, the shit, here is someone who stood up. HERE IS...has been going through my head since I began writing the 13th chapter of my memoir.  I'm not planning on shaving a mohawk or purging the streets of NYC, but I've been living with the dirt and grime of my life in 1995.  I bite, scratch and gnaw at myself while hating and accusing others.  The one who observes and understands me most has advised to "keep that 26th year of my life at a distance" -- to look at it and believe that it doesn't exist anymore, because it really doesn't.  "Others," she said, "would disagree."  I'm with her, but still, I prefer to let myself go.  When I look up from my computer screen (most likely in search of a transition),  I want to be shocked that I'm not a cocaine-thin size 0 or an unaware, desperate single, as I was at 26.   

• My head stinks if I don't wash it every day.  My hairdresser says it's my hormones adjusting to my coming off the Pill a couple of months ago.
• I need to pop a Zantac daily nowadays because the acid, regardless of my diet, is killing me, burning my chest & stomach.  My therapist blames it on the stress of working as a personal assistant to four, sometimes five, women.
• I have a stale taste in my mouth -- as if I didn't floss and brush like a maniac.  My husband, an Italian chef, attributes it to the food, surprisingly, I've eaten.
• Two nights ago stomach cramps and nausea woke me up at 3am and sent me to the bathroom for an hour of cold body sweats, eliminations and pain, I imagine, close to childbirth.  Again, my husband pointed to food.

I disagree.  I know it's the filth of  '95 that I've revived and pushed to the surface.  It's bleeding out all over the place...and I'm only on the 9th page of a very, very long chapter.