Something happened yesterday that upset the living bejeezus out of me. Better now, but for most of eighteen hours my heart kept racketing like a tennis ball in the drum of a dryer; percussion against my ribs competed with a sense that the Event Horizon was somewhere in my mediastinum. People who are less cautious about the great soul-sucking meat grinder that is American Medicine go to the ER for sensations like this.
I had to wait around this morning for a delivery, despite the Gene Krupa riffs being still there when I woke up. Pocketa pocketa. Finally, there was just time to get to the gym.
Twenty minutes on the bike, pull-ups, dumbbell presses, pullovers and hanging-from-a-bar leg raises, the bravura succession of upside-down moves I can’t do without. Stuff that would probably make a doctor’s head spin around like Linda Blair’s in the Exorccist if you told her your heart was already palpitating.
What the fuck. I grabbed the axle of the world and stopped banging around loose in its orbit.
Everything was fine after that.