“Every Cloud…”

I’ve been too sick to publicize my new book, “Every Cloud…”, for the past two weeks since it came out.

Illness is a journey in itself.  First, it was the fire in the ash can.  My ashcan was a plastic wastebasket lined with a shopping bag.  Now, it is a large steel pot with a steel lid.  It made the place smell terrible, I realize now.  The roll- your- own cigarettes actually don’t catch on fire.  They smolder.  I was asleep in the middle of the day, as is my habit.  I was especially tired.  I slept only to awaken to a thick cloud of the poisonous smoke of melted plastic and raunchy cigarette butts.  It was scary.  At first I was worried about smoke inhalation, but it turned out that, instead, everything in the house was covered with a residue of the smoke, and it burned my skin.  I don’t do well with heat in my skin because of the picking at my skin when I was in serious bug phobia.  The skin is so scarred that the heat can’t get out.  My skin was sore, red, hot, and itchy.  I couldn’t get away from it.

In the middle of the night I fled to a motel room.  I had an appointment with a neurologist the next. day and there was no WAY I was going to miss it.

The upshot?  I wound up with the referral to a neuropscychiatrist which I have always needed, on an emergency basis.  So, yeah, everything really does work to the good…So buy my book!  I already plan to revise and republish it as “Wild Passions:  A Purgation of the Soul.”  My son wants a hardcover, red and gold.  As the book is dedicated to him I will observe his wishes.  The present cover does look like something out of the comic “Peanuts,” so I did take harm from my mother’s comment, on an especially engineered birthday dinner, when I said that I had assigned the profits to my son,  “Oh, of course you’ll get peanuts for it.”  It was a set-up.  I really resent that they used my birthday to attack me for my book.  They say it’s the money I spent to self-publish.  I finally realize that my father is just really immature.  At 80, he is jealous that I pushed a book through publication to the point of selling, and had me read his recently published letter to the editor as part of the engineering of a downer of a birthday.  But I did get a new gold cross out of it which I was sorely missing in my life.






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