Tuesday, September 10, 2002


We've tried everything we can think of to get Lucy to eat. She's just not getting better. She can't breathe, she won't eat or drink, and we have to force feed her the medications that don't seem to be helping.

I've promised Catherine--and I mean it--that we are not getting any more pets. I can't handle the end times. I can't pick up anymore little bodies, and I can't dig any more graves. I just won't do this again. Once Lucy and Jack are gone, Catherine's just going to have to be content with my company, and my company alone.

9:22 PM

A month ago I was a picture of good health. I have the photographs to prove it.

Today, I feel like death after it's been buried under the crumbling foundation of a burned-out, vermin-infested crack house for ten days.

Who knew plant allergies could be so bad?

The contact burns from where I touched the plant are starting to look better (meaning that the welts look a little else angry now that they've started to weep). But every day I get new blisters popping up to burn and itch. Well, forget every day, how about every hour? I've got blisters where there weren't any a few hours ago. I've got a welt on my right arm, surrounded by hundreds of tiny blisters extending from my elbow down to my fingers and over my palm. I've got it between the fingers of my left hand. My neck is a rash of blisters, front and back. I've got it on my earlobes. I've got it on my stomach. I've got it on my scalp. I've got contact welts on both legs and my right ankle, and clusters of blisters behind my knees, on my calves, on my shins. I've got it on my back. I've got it places that can't be mentioned in public. And it doesn't just itch, it burns. I might as well douse myself in fuel and light the match.

It's keeping me awake at night. I've overdosed on benadryl to no avail. I've got some goopy green organic stuff that doesn't seem to help. I've tried Ivarest, calamine lotion, cortisone, and ice. When I do finally fall asleep and make the mistake of rolling over in my sleep, I wake up as the sheet tears away from where it has been sticking to blisters on some part of my body.

I sound like a whiner (if someone whines in a forest, and there's no one around to hear it...) but if I whined at the volume this stuff really deserves, I'd be screaming at this point. It's driving me absolutely fucking crazy, and it is definitely doing the "it will get worse before it gets better" routine on me.

Woe is me.

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