"Food tastes better," Skeeter says. "And when I get up in the morning I'm starving instead of having to force myself to eat over the successive waves of nausea that used to hit me the moment the alarm went off."
"Even sleeping," Skeeter says, "is real, even when it's not enough. I have real dreams instead of dreams about illness and hospitals and wishing that my surgeon still liked me."
"And the heat doesn't bash me anymore because it's just something," Skeeter says. "Know what I mean?"
"I haven't the fucking foggiest..." I mutter and hate myself immediately because this invites him to continue talking; the smart thing to do would have been to pretend to sleep. So he continues to talk.
"Well, you know how when something icky happens normally you just get through and get on with your life?" Skeeter says, rhetorically, I know this time, and say nothing. He goes on nevertheless. "Well, before the heat was one MORE thing...one MORE thing on top of everything. One MORE thing piled on top of my shitty
Iife just making it MORE shitty—"
"—yes, yes I get it. MORE. Yes, I think I've grabbed your meaning," I say in a tone that would shut up the most retarded kid on the short bus, but not Skeeter.
"And I never once," Skeeter says, "NOT ONCE!—suspected how huge the weight on my shoulders was. HOW FUCKING HUGE my anguish was about my surgeon treating me like this. HOW FUCKING HUGE was the abyss in my life because I began to feel I...HAD...NO...FUTURE! HOW FUCKING HUGE—"
Finally: "—FUCKING HUGE! MORE! MORE HUGE! HUGE-ARAMA! HUGE-ARRIFIC! HUGE-APALOOZA!" I trilled. "I FUCKING GET IT. YOUR LIFE IS BETTER! I GET IT! BOO-BOO GETS IT! EVERYONE WHO HAS LISTENED TO YOU IN THE LAST THREE DAYS GETS IT! THE FUCKING BIRDS IN THE TREES, THE BUGS ON THE BIRDS AND THE FUCKING BACTERIA ON THE BUGS ON THE BIRDS IN THE TREES FUCKING GET IT! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, PLEASE, PLEASE SHUT UP!"
Instead of crumbling under my words, he just grins stupidly and kisses my nose. I sigh. All he said is true. He is almost obscenely content and goes off to the clinic every day and comes back from it whistling and chirping and this despite the fact that he returns sodden with—ew!—sweat.
Don't get me wrong—he's still the pissy, tempermental homo diva he always was, but now he's in a good mood when he goes OTT like the drama queen he is. And just in time, too, because Boo is losing his mind with stress over the beginning of his school year and the fact that now that he's a manager he has to deal with whiney teachers...worse, unionized whiney teachers; think: men and women with PMS all the fucking time.
So...here we are. We thought the fucking opera was over but Wagner has another three turgid hours of shrieking fat Frauleins and bellowing hefty Herren to offer us.
Kill me. Kill me now.
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