I Am Bread

I had entirely forgotten that my bloodwork had come back as “borderline diabetic.” Forgotten like I never even knew. Diabetes? You have to be fucking kidding me. I’ve beat tougher things than an insulin imbalance.

Severe ulcerative colitis. Tonsilitis. Hepatitis. Lots of itises. Some I’m sure I’m forgetting. One broken nose, two broken wrists, countless broken dreams. Junior high school. School lunchrooms. Processed cheese product. Canned string beans. Bad haircuts. Questionable dye jobs. Questionable men. Bad men. No men. Too much money. Not enough money. Twenty dental extractions. One abortion. Three miscarriages. Countless near misses. More one-night stands than there are weeks in the year. My parent’s bad marriage. My not exactly legal, but still exactly lousy marriage. Four attempts on my life.

I’ve had a gun to my head. A knife to my ribs. Amoeba tried to eat my liver. There was Drugs. Booze. One sociopath. Four car accidents. Two motorcycle accidents.

I jumped off a cliff and out of an airplane. Flew without an engine. Slept in Washington Square Park in NYC. Slept in Louis Armstrong Park in New Orleans. Slept…around

Food poisoning. Alcohol poisoning. Jealous girlfriends. Suspicious wives.

Cat scratch fever. Heartbreaks. Psychotic breaks. Family therapy. Ten different therapists

I’ve been mugged, kidnapped, raped. There was one stalker.

I made it through the public school curriculum. The. Campfire. Girls. Puberty. Suburbia. Summer camp. Yiddish. Cultural. School. Gym class. Frosted eye shadow. Community college. AM radio

The East Village in the 70s and the entertainment “biz” in the 80s. Four different apartments in 3 ½ boroughs of NYC.  Two in which the ceilings collapsed. The NYC subway system. The blackout of 2003. The transit strike of 2005. The blizzard of 2010. The great cockroach debacle of 1979

Both hurricanes Sandy and Gloria. That Portuguese man of war. The UnderToad.

Thirty-five years of cigarette smoking. Twenty-two years of drugs and booze. Nembutals. Seconals. Tuinals. Quaaludes. Crystal Meth. Crank. Heroin. Cocaine. Yukon Jack. Vodka. Halcyon. Elavil. Valium. More vodka. Gin. Tequila. Frangelica. Harveys Bristol Creme. Beer. Wine. Boilermakers. Pretty much anything that could be snorted, shot, or put in a glass and poured down my throat.

Driving while intoxicated. Driving while very intoxicated. Driving in a blackout on the Long Island Expressway. Flying without an engine. Trying to fly without a plane. Or wings. Or feathers.

Every single hair color found in nature and many that are not. A beauty school perm.

The rollerblade craze. The disco era. Platform shoes. Spiked heels and potholes.The Hells Angels. The Hellfire club. Plato’s retreat. The Continental Baths.

The monsters. In my closet. Under my bed. Behind the shower curtain. In my head. That speak with my own voice.

Measles. Mumps. Chicken pox. Three bouts of strep throat. Gonorrhea. Trichomonas. Insomnia. Lethargy. Apathy. OCD. Frozen thumb. Osteonecrosis

Lust. Gluttony. Greed. Laziness (I know it’s supposed to be Sloth, but I like sloths and I don’t want them to get a bad rap). Wrath. Envy. Pride. Shame.

And menopause.

So, this week, instead of buying bread, I bought English muffins.
Next time, flat bread.
Time after that, maybe Zweiback crackers.
Baby steps. One step at a time.

In steel-toed boots.