Scrubbing Bubbles sing the National Anthem for Viruses in my Belly

I just spent two days laid up because I ate something or something chose my body as a percolating host and I laid in bed and did what a math background min does when half conscious, make algorithms out of all bodily sensations; I had split parts of my stomach pain into sectors and had explained all of them to gain control until I headed to the bathrooma nd realized no such algorithm exists;  it’s just a naughty asymptote, which in math is like a horizon; something you can approach but never reach and depending on how stuck inside the Bible you are, may or may not actually exist.

But once an illness is done, it’s like an involuntary cleanse and I feel clearer; I haven’t had any caffeine or general processed food to, in a very 80’s way, deregulate my moods and generally give the greedy, uncultivated moods free reign over the hard working and unsuspecting more nominal and day to day moods;  Tonight I talked about my drama with my birthparents and finding them last year, both separate cords to follow and both with strange pieces of meat tied to the end, one with a bag of fruity orgasm in the middle; I will expound on that later; tonight, though, talking about it to Kim on the phone I recalled that my birthfather’s wife (not my birthmother) in one of her last erratic highly unregulated, one would say Libertarian, mood letters told me that in August 1972 my birthfather became a father again, which was eighteen months after I was born and not to my birthfather’s current wife; therefore I have a half sister floating around and have no idea who she is;  I hope I never dated her; maybe she was one of the five Lisas in a row I dated; I doubt it;  this drama, as per instructions to my life before I was born, requires plot points made of silly putty-shrapnel  hybrid, a storyteller bounty hunter paradise;  Suddenly finding a possible half sister seems like a plausible entry into this emotional-spycho-spiritual Wonkaland, As it is 1AM I am winding towards my nightly ritual of falling asleep to the magical patters of Sparkles, the rat in my ceiling/wall that refuses to relocate; tomorrow one of us dies.

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