At some point last night… I felt like I recovered all my HP.
Suddenly, I wasn’t coughing, sneezing, or blowing my nose. Didn’t have a headache. I wasn’t ridiculously cold. I felt healthy. Just out of nowhere. Sometime after Jeopardy. I was coughing and sneezing and blowing my nose throughout the day (three TPs already). But out of nowhere, it just stopped. I have been sleeping a lot. This time I only slept like 6 hours.
I woke up feeling great, alas, it was brief.
Hah. I keep using alas every time I can.
It wasn’t long until I started coughing, sneezing, and blowing my nose again. That’s my current status. Yet I feel SOOOOO MUCH BETTER than I did the past few days. HP not fully recovered.
Here’s more sky rats. Took that yesterday because I already want to go out and take more pictures.
The one good thing about being sick is… I haven’t had a drop of alcohol since Saturday. I haven’t even had the desire to drink. I would say I’m quitting for a while, but I have a Tijuana Adventure this Saturday, so I’ll be drinking then. Hopefully I won’t be sick still….
And because of sick. I’m going to do something I haven’t done in a long ass time. Bucket shower.
I rather take cold showers because the bucket shower is tricksy. It’s either too hot, or too cold. And water tends to run out… or sometimes I conserve to much of it that I waste plenty at the end. It also makes me want to be a tiny person and get inside the bucket. I never even fit in bath tubs. Unless it’s a nice fancy hotel one. I love baths. But I is a poor person that takes cold showers (and that I take cold showers doesn’t mean I can be a picky eater/drinker/lifer).
The bucket water is warming up as I type this. And after the shower. Back to work. And working I have been! I sent emails, pitches, stories, and started to type more of them. I also have three stories in the works. Two easy, one hard.
Before the year ends, I will be published somewhere else that is not the Reader. That sounds like an easy target. Right?
Ahhh the hard story.
Is about Spanglish.
No. Not that shitty Adam Sandler/Paz Vega movie. That shit didn’t even really talk about Spanglish.
A long time obsession of mine. Especially since moving to Tijuana and living the border life. Spanglish has infiltrated my brain that is now common for me to speak it. College me would hate me for giving up into the contamination of both languages. But now I love it. I don’t mind it. It’s part of my identity. I am both American and Mexican. So fuck it. Spanglish is my natal tongue. Though for the longest time I tried to keep my brain fragmented in both languages, once you live in the border, it is impossible to keep that fragmentation without losing your mind.
Ahh the easy stories.
Those are food reviews. When talking to an actual journalist freelancer, she said things like “you should be able to do a food review in an hour.” HAH! Sometimes it takes me more than a couple of days. For what?! A miserable pay. She is right. I can do them faster. And each time I have. Though I love dwelling in the details, absorbing all the history, and giving a very informative review, not all of them have to be like this. Not for the pay.
So many writers.
So many way shittier writers make much more money than me.
Not to toot my own horn. THERE ARE WAY BETTER WRITERS THAN ME. But there’s way more writers that are shit that get more money. I don’t aspire to much. I just enjoy writing. And that it pays me somewhat, is already a miracle.
Some of those better writers maybe make less money than me. Nah. Most of them make way more.
Money and writing don’t fare well together. Or not in these fickle times. When everyone and anyone can be a writer. Fake news, listicles, clickbaits, and other bullshit coagulate the internet. There’s some sort of sense to stop. But at the same time, it’s what generates the most money.
Stupid capitalism. Nah. The system is not to blame. Or perhaps. Depends in who is at fault at the stupidity of the masses. The masses themselves?
Ahh fuck everyone. I don’t even know what I’m writing about anymore. Oh hai Bisho! You want to climb on my lap. Climb on my lap you silly cat. KISS KISS KISS. He hates it. But he stays on my lap.
Anyway. Talking to a freelance actual journalist was like a little kid who loves soccer meeting Lionel Messi, or some shit like that. And it was so casual. I didn’t even realize it until she mentioned Luis Urrea, a great writer that I try to follow his footsteps since I read the Devil’s Highway.
Is the water ready now?
Ahh. I have a Bisho on my lap. I’ll wait more minutes while typing more non-sense. Hopefully is not ridiculously hot when I finally decide to bucket shower.
I cough like a dirty old dog. It sounds horrible. The phlegm climbs up my throat and… COUGH COUGH.
Ok. Bucket shower. Breakfast. Work. Emails. Work. Emails. Food. Work. Emails. COUGH.