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.