June 22, 2009
I slept a stink so bad last night I had to take refuge on my girlfriend’s side of the bed. A stink so bad I must have died, rotted, and then been forced back to life to answer for the olfactory crimes of my passing. There is no natural explanation for the persistence and pungency of the odor: I checked the sheet for shit stains three times, to no avail. Whatever substance I’m emitting is as colorless as it odorous: some invisible taint to my sweat or dreams.
Oddly, I smell of fresh meadows and whimsy in my daily life; or at most speed stick and quiet determination. Even my former sleep sweat has been of the regular musky gent variety. And yet, I don’t know if I’m pregnant, or host to a less native parasite, but there is something seriously off in my body chemistry. My cat Felicia, whose purest joy in life to sleep pressed against human folk, now spends her nights alternately rubbing fresh cloves into my skin and trying to find a belt strong enough to hang her self.
I am hoping this is just a response to the sudden rise in temperature, and a couple incidents of celebratory binge drinking. Should it persist I may need to start sleeping in a bathtub full of baking soda just to preserve the few sources of human contact I have left. I ask not for your pity, but your prayers.