BST8: Of head chopping and salty soups...

I was getting sick and tired of being sick and tired. I was smelly, nasty, grungy - my parents, who wisely after my performance in the shower in NY, had banned me from the shower down here. I had not showered in roughly 5 days at this point. I was able to con them into allowing me a quick shower, with the provision that I left the door open. Which was not a big deal considering my mother has the thickest, darkest shower curtain on record.

Also one of the most spacious bathrooms.

So I showered, only getting dizzy a number of times, not blacking out, just dizzy. (As in, I was really probably very close to passing out, but somehow fought it off.) I learned one thing after I got out of the shower. I was sick of my hair.

I've struggled all my life with my hair. I have thick, thick hair. Thick like peanut butter. Half the time I want it long, the other half I am trying to tame it short.

My hair has a natural part, thoroughly enforced by 6 years of catholic school, uniforms, and neatness as a requirement.

In my 30 years, I haven't lost that part no matter what I do. So as I was saying, I was once again - sick of my hair. It was long, but long in that not long enough way. Best descriptive word: unkempt.

So off to the hair cutting place we go. Just up 616 by Dollar General, nice lady - good cut. I was happy - plus the whole process felt really good for some reason - very calming.

We go out to eat to celebrate my newfound hair, to a chinese food place down at Bridgewater. We sit, order - and get a round of wanton soup for all. Now finding chinese food that matches the quality and quantity of NYC chinese is no easy task. In trying this 'wanton soup' I discovered, to my personal tastes anyway - that it was salty. Extremely so. Upon asking my fellow diners if I was correct in my assesment - I was met with puzzled stares, and a round of "no."

Ooohkkkaaayy - so its just me. Well, I had a bit more soup. Then, there was a splishin and a splashin, a rolling and a heavin, a moovin and a groovin, no dealin with the feelin - I got up, ran to the bathroom - were I proceeded to purge every ounce of anything I had eaten in the past 4-5 years. Painful, violent - and ulitmately embarassing. I felt awful for the restaurant, I did not want them to think it was their food.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, I went back to the table - gulped copious amounts of water, fought off the pukey feeling I was getting just being in there - and shot out the door to wait in the car till they were done.

I half sat, half laid in the back seat of the car with the door open - smoking and lolling my head about like a ragdoll while the minutes passed. I did not have my walkman, I did not turn on the radio.

I heard the call of the nice lady who was acting as matre'd came to the door to ask me if there was anything she could do. I reassured her it was not the food, just me. And yes, I would be fine. I felt awful for putting a place through that kind of worry.

Of course, I haven't been back to determine if the soup really was that salty.

So it was back home, to rest or whatever - which meant an intermineable amount of smoking on the front porch - and probably drinking a gallon of coffee.

Or sleep - Im not sure which. All I know is it was my last shower as a man whose brain was 1/4" larger than his skull.

The next few days would change the course of humanity as we know it. Or at least my life. Well, it changed something anyhow.

Tomorrow: Oh Hi Doc. Yeah - you want me to what? CT? Does that involve needles?