Would I ever have thought that I would dread going to the city? Would I ever have imagined that I would be sitting at my computer with a mutilated, butchered, grotesque chest, hormonal and crying, feeling two alien life forms stretching my skin while Beau pops out to take a meeting? Could I have envisioned myself getting on a plane and showing the TSA people my fucking hospital card (resting in my fucking Prada wallet, natch) that reads: "BardPort Implanted Port with open-ended catheter?"
It has a product code and a lot number. I have a fucking product implanted in my chest. (It's a registered trademark of C.R. Bard, Inc., or an affiliate!) Would I ever have thought that my life would be this strange, surreal, real, full, empty, meaningful and meaningless at the same time? I don't fucking know. I don't fucking know anything anymore. I just want to lie down and relinquish control of my life to someone else. Someone who cares about it more than me perhaps.

All I know right now is that I don't know what I'm fighting for anymore. My dog? My family? My friends? Myself? It's certainly not the latter and it must be the former, but is that enough?

"Where do you see yourself in six months when this is all over?" Beau asked me last night.

I don't fucking know. Okay? I don't fucking know. I told him I saw myself going on a much-needed vacation, California or back to the Amalfi Coast. (Hey, if I do die this year, at least I got that vacation, right?)

But the truth is, right now all I see is a fade to black.

I felt ill earlier. Beau and I went for a walk along the water. Cleared my head but I still felt physically ill. I have no appetite yet I am supposed to feed myself six times a day. With like healthy shit and shit. So we went to Wild Oats, bought some fake chicken and Beau made some dinner for me. It's like I'm watching this utterly psychotic person's life go on from a distance. I mean, this can't possibly be me can it? But it is. This is my life. Whatever this is.

Beau just walked to Lincoln Road and called to check in when he got there.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes," I said, snuffling into a wad of paper towels.

"What are you blowing your nose?"

"No," I said, laughing, "I'm crying."

"You're crying?"

"Yes. I'm writing and I'm crying."

"You're writing and crying, like what's her—"

"Ha. Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give."

"Yeah!"

Yeah. Maybe, if the book ever does come out, you'll get the reference then.