Catch-22

I am so hungry right now.  I am so hungry that I could tear sheets off my desk calendar and eat them.  I am so hungry that the little pushpins on my bulletin board are starting to resemble tiny, delicious berries.

I was so nervous last night that I couldn’t eat anything besides half a tomato sandwich.  Not very filling.  And I was so nervous this morning that I could only take two bites of a banana.  Also not very filling.

And now here it is, less than six hours prior to surgery, that goddamned window of time when I’m not allowed to eat or drink anything at all — not even water — and I’m fucking starving.

What’s worse, I know that I won’t be able to eat anything for at least a half-day after the surgery, because I’ll be so doped up and/or in pain.  So the next time I eat will be…Saturday morning?  Jesus.  And even then, it’ll be hard to get or keep anything down.

Maybe I can turn this into a religious fast or something.  Heh.

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You’re currently reading “Catch-22,” an entry on Chelsea Hotel No. 2

Published:
2.22.08 / 8am
Category:
vituperation
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