My last blog post got 1 billion hits, so this probably won't be much different.

File this blog post under things that should not be.  Here is a picture of my infected leg.

I have this strange desire to touch my infection, and then rub my eyes.

The infection has actually gotten a little better, even though your only comparison is a picture I tweeted the other day where the size looked much smaller.  But the entire leg was swollen and hard from the swelling.  The swelling has decreased quite a bit.

At first I was prescribed Bactrim. I did not handle it well.  I can't take most antibiotics as I am allergic or I have strange reactions to the medication.  The doctors look at me like I'm from outer space when I describe tales of panic attacks, hallucinations, insomnia, minor convulsion like movements, stiffness in neck, headaches.

The physician's assistant tells me that my symptoms are "probably caused by the infection," but she went ahead and adjusted my medication anyway.

I don't have a primary care doctor, so I end up at clinics and ER's and things like that.  I have no history with the doctor and they don't know me well, so they just assume I am crazy I guess.

I mean I am crazy.

I am having panic attacks daily now.  They are even getting worse.  Sometimes I don't recognize my hand or foot as belonging to me.  Even though I know they belong to me.  It's like I am getting an inside view of my fucked up brain when it hallucinates this shit, just so it can prove to me that the data it's working on is real.

I get it brain.  Your shit is real.  How about working on fixing the part of the brain that knows that my body parts really belong to me?  Then maybe we can stop the panic attacks that wake me up at 7 in the morning.

I jump out of bed spreading blood and puss everywhere.  I see closed eyed visuals of swirly jellyfish.  I swing my fists madly like I am getting attacked by something from Pandora.

My emotional life is a mild state of anxiety at all times.  I go hopping from one panic attack to the next.  Dreading the next one.  Sometimes getting caught off guard if it's been a few hours of "feeling baseline."  Not that baseline to me is anywhere near normal of a few years ago.

All my friends seem worried about me.  That write and tell me that I seem to be falling apart.  They know 80 year old men in better health.  I have let all my problems fester.  Now like the wound you see before you, it runs deep buried into my living tissue.  And now it seems to only want to rot from within.

There is stinky pile of puss, fuming away at my insides.  There is a rabid attack force of celulitis set upon me.  I await necrosis.  The ultimate in self destructiveness.

There is so much infection in me on any normal day that I bet the antibiotics are wondering where to go first.  Should we attack the infected ingrown toe nail from 2 years ago?  Should we go after the sebaceous cyst on his scalp?  What about the cancer in his testicles?

"Fuck that!" I bet the antibiotics say.  "I mean we are just for anti-malaria."

Wait didn't I read somewhere that anti-malaria antibiotics are horrible for you?

Whatever.  I'm tired of doing battle.  I am losing it anyways.

So broke I have to break into my penny stash.

I think Qwest must have double dipped my account.  Bastards.  And of course the phone company has no service people on Sunday to answer questions for me.  So if you walk past a dis-shelved man and wonder why he is letting blood roll down his leg.  Now you know why.  Fucking penny machine counter was broke.

p.s. send gauze and tape, also antibiotics that don't give panic attacks, but are strong enough to kill this vicious infection, plus some Valium or something for my nerves.