Fuckin' Fiction

Your hands went numb at first only temporarily. You couldn’t quite tell if your mental processes were effected the first time. Oh but you could when it wouldn’t go away. When you couldn’t sleep it off anymore. You’re confused all the time now. You have limited feelings in your hands and legs. Working has become more difficult, it’s hard to remember things people just said to you.

“Someone help, Someone please help me.” It’s what you want to paste in your facebook status, or your twitter client. When you are staring at unexplained symptoms, when you are staring at the potential of a disease that will be with you with the rest of your life, and you’ve burnt all the bridges of the people who physically manifest your life. You just need someone to come see you. Someone to help you get motivated to clean up the house. Someone to help you do something besides drink…Because that’s why you’re here. You drank so much, for so long. You may actually have something fatal, and no not something so classic as liver damage. Life like’s to make ironies. It always has. So you’re going to the doctor, to see if you have alcoholic neuropathy. The thing that makes you unique, your one admirable quality…It’s dieing. Your nervous system no longer cares what you do. It’s just going to be failing for the rest of your life. Or is it. It could be something more simple like a lack of thiamine, dry beriberi. But you don’t know, and you don’t know what seems more likely. You tried to cure yourself but the doctor’s visit looms in the future, altogether at once a source of dread and a source of hope.