The Drivel Thread

Lung Infection

My right lung is infected with something
It’s hard to concentrate on anything
I think anxiety opened me to attack
Now I try to avoid it
Hoping to counter attack

It feels like shit
I don’t know if I can paint like this
I wonder if Morrissey will come to see me
On my death bed
Because I won’t be surprised

If this takes me down
Some people will be glad
To be rid of me
I really want to stick around
And paint portraits of Morrissey

In the hope that someday
He will grab hold of me
And free me from my psychiatrist
By giving me a photograph of us
So I can love without anxiety that I’ll be locked away

In a psych ward
For believing that Morrissey loves me
If I had that intimacy
I wouldn’t need to come here
To spill my guts anymore
For the movie, we open on a concert, where an aging Morrissey (David Morrissey) is singing Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want. Then we transition to Sharon (Sadie Sink) walking the streets of Vancouver with a backpack bursting with used plastic bags; she's wearing headphones, the concert song still playing. She sways her head gently to the music, lost in her thoughts, oblivious to the grubby street people and classy three-dollar-latte drinkers around her. Please Please ends, and the instrumental funk of The Night Pop Dropped begins. Sharon bobs and dances and makes clichéd rapping gestures as she composes a poem in her head. The citizens on the sidewalk look at her strangely.

SHARON (voice over, dour and monotone). I've got a lung infection that just won't quit. And it feels like shit. But one thing I've got, in spite of this rot, is hope. Hope that Morrissey will come for me. To see me. To cuddle me. To love me. Even if I'm dying. At least I won't be crying.

I don’t feel loving. I feel crabby and needy. I’m going to bed, with the sensation of irritation in my right lung.
I wish I could drag you back to that bench
Snatch you up from there
Take you by the hand home
Where I have no sheets
Just blankets
I want to feel at home again
With you
Never feel alone again
I’ve been trying to sleep off the infection. So far this morning, my lung does feel okay, but the infection is probably lurking in there, and will pounce, again, before long.
Knowing you, you could show up today, but knowing you probably won’t, hurts. You, loving you, is torture. You don’t give me contact info so I can reach you in a calm way. You leave me helplessly hoping you’ll show up spontaneously. I have no choice but to try to keep hoping, someday soon, you’ll wrap me in your arms, and leave me a photo of us together to get my shrink off my back about it.
We’ve been merciless with each other. Me walking away, you not giving me contact info. 20 years ago, me not getting on Solo to tell you to try again please. I was mute, and now I talk too much. Please come back, and shove your email address into my hand. Then, let’s go to my place, go to my blanketed bed, spend some quality time there finally, then take the stupid photo for my psychiatrist to leave me alone.

I’m going to try again to stay off the drivel thread now. Good luck to me. I’ll probably back before tomorrow.

My lung infection is still going on, though it’s not as bad today, so far, as it was yesterday.

I ate Satay again, and bought another six pack of beer. I’m not proud. That’s three addictions I wish I would quit. The drivel thread, Satay, and beer. But without the drivel thread, how could I write to you? Please, give me your email address.
I was the first one to sin, by walking away from you on the dance floor in, I guess it would have been 1977, and not leaving you any contact info. I was pretty much a runaway, so I probably didn’t have any contact info. Oh, I think I was back in the group home then. I likely didn’t know the number. Anyway, I’m so very sorry, for walking away from you, each horrible time I did it. I was the one that started this mess we’re in.
I’m going to try again to shut up about it, and just post painting updates when I’m feeling better. I’m going back to bed. You’ll meet me when you’ll meet me. Soon, I hope.
It's raining for once. Music always sounds better with rain. I'm listening to the album Protest Songs by Prefab Sprout. We're on the last song, before I skip back to Talking Scarlet to hear my last 3 favourites again.
I'm curious who this mysterious person is
Who else, but Morrissey, but he should avoid me until I’m well clear of my lung infection. It seems to be clearing up. And I don’t know why, but I’ve got a new smell that I don’t particularly like. I don’t know if that’s contagious. I have a neighbour who smells like that, but stronger, and he handled my water bottle. Maybe I caught it from him.
Don’t mind me, everyone thinks I’m delusional to believe Morrissey wants to be with me. I’m a loony.
anxiety bloody awful poetry testing the waters trying to feel good in your own skin trying to make friends wanting to alleviate anxiety wanting to feel safe to be honest wanting to have integrity
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