GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #988: THE BIG MOVE (the eye of the tornado)

 Today was my day off, so I got used to driving from my new home to Elmhurst for my usual medical appointments. It was a rough drive, so I can only assume my trip to work tomorrow will suck badly. I got a few things done while I was up there, but it was nice to come back to a place where I could relax a bit. I ate lunch and watched the end of Route 66. You'd think a show named after Route 66 would happen, more or less, on Route 66, but the show ended in Florida. There was a moment where Tod and Linc are doing what feels like a Dwight Schrute bit, dressed in disguise. It's ridiculous. But it's a show I started watching to help get through the early days of a lack of booze. It felt good to finish it.

On the way back to Joliet, I drove to my new home by memory for the first time. I did pretty well, I think. The trick will be getting back to I-55 tomorrow morning.

I got to sort through some of my stuff, trying to figure out what I need and what I can store for now. I think I'm going to just get paper plates and Solo cups and pack my dishes and glasses for now. I might pack up my pans and stuff, too. The books stay for now. Later the rest of my books are going to be in the garage here, but that's for much later, when I'm no longer in the eye of the tornado. So I'll need a bunch of books to keep me company for the near future.

I had to figure out which of my clothes were dirty and clean so I can figure out laundry for Sunday. This is a fun Goodnight, Fuckers. I think I may be boring the shit out of myself for now. But I needed the moment to calm my mind. My life has been in utter chaos for a while now, and I'm glad I can catch my breath for a bit.

Plus: I got to get through a few days without hearing jack shit about Trump or Musk or any of the usual gang of idiots. That was good for my soul. Tomorrow I'm sure I'll be inundated again, and regular programing will resume. Oh, and since I missed a night this week due to illness, I'll do one on Saturday.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #987: THE BIG MOVE, PART 2

 I woke up super early yesterday morning so I could move the last of my shit out of the hotel. I begrudgingly got dressed and went downstairs to get a handcart from the lobby. Except there were none. FUCK. I had to carry this shit out by hand, and my back was giving me troubles. It took me a while, but I got everything down. I had enough time to give myself a half an hour to rest before I got ready for work and to leave the hotel for good.

[Not for nothing, but there were other people humping their shit out to their cars by hand. I'm not the only one the handcart thieves put through hell.]

Something told me not to return both keys. I'm glad I didn't.

On the way to work I started feeling weird, like maybe I was about to get another bout of my mystery illness, except I didn't have any liquid vicodin. I'd used the last of it two days previous to stave off another attack. Not that I had a bed to retreat to, now that the hotel was gone.

I got to work, and before I could punch in, I felt the illness come upon me. I begged to leave work, and I barely made it back to the hotel in time to puke my guts out. Horrible. Horrible shit. But it happened, and I knew it would continue. I tried to ride it out in the hotel bed for the two hours I had left before checkout time, but I couldn't do it. I gave up and went to the ER.

Surprisingly the ER didn't have much of a wait time. I got to my room pretty quickly. The doctor took a little while, but when I finally saw him he agreed to give me my Zofran and morphine. I felt the morphine take hold, and the pain went away.

But not the vomiting, which was unusual. I kept getting up and puking more and more until I had to ask for help. I asked for anything stronger. They gave me another dose of each. That seemed to put off the puking, at least a little bit. Because the ER rush had begun, they had to get me out of there. Except . . . where could I recover? The hotel was done for real this time. I couldn't drive to my new home in Joliet. I wouldn't have lasted very long on that hour-plus trip.

One good thing: when they discharged me, my primary doctor must have seen I was in the ER. My liquid vicodin was ready.

I could only go back to my old house. So far no one had changed the locks or cleared out the stuff we abandoned, and I hoped that would continue. Because I was puking again.

I went home and saw that thankfully I still had access. The place was cold as fuck and smelled like the bathroom, but I went straight to the couch we abandoned--an uncomfortable affair, I assure you--where I found a couple of throw pillows and took my liquid vicodin.

I passed out for a while, but when I woke up I still felt pukey. I drank more of it and tried to sleep again. I repeated this dance until about 10 am this morning. I was feeling a little hungry, which was the first sign of the horror passing.

So I brought all my stuff down to Joliet, where I'm typing this in the basement. I live down here with a cat and two ferrets. I'll be sleeping on my air mattress. But most importantly, it's a weed-friendly house, so I don't have to go outside to smoke.

I'm glad to be out of the hotel, but my mystery illness is a prick, and it struck at the worst possible moment. But I have the cure for now. I don't expect to feel this bad for another two months at least.

Also, my three minute commute is gone. My new commute is going to be an hour and ten, possibly thirty, minutes. Maybe not on Saturday, but still, that blows. At least my regular day off is tomorrow. I only have two doctors appointments, and the rest of my day is mine to unpack the rest of my crap. I just have the essentials out now.

To quote a great man, "OK for now." I'm going to bed.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #986: THE BIG MOVE

 Tonight is the last night in the hotel. Finally. I will no longer be bothered by the screams and banging of my neighbors. "Banging," as in banging shit around, but one time I heard the sexual version while the parents' poor kid waited out in the hall. To say nothing of the dude who had to be dragged away in cuffs for beating the mortal shit out of his dog.

For most of my life I've made jokes about Joliet, as it is not a very nice place to live. There's a huge industrial area that shrouds the area in smoke, and the rest of Joliet doesn't smell good on a hot summer day. But that's where I'll be living soon. It's a nice neighborhood by a couple of forest preserves, so I'll probably have new places to read out in the wilderness.

I'll be sleeping on the air mattress again, but to be out of the hotel? I'm almost looking forward to it. I'll be living in the basement where a couple of friends live. They've taken mercy on me, so I have a roof over my head for the foreseeable future. So my nightmare is almost over. Not quite. I still have a ways to go, but for the most part, as Gramps used to say, it's all over but the shouting.

I've also been advised that I can smoke weed inside, so I won't have to go outside for that like I do at the hotel.

But I dread tomorrow morning. I'm getting up around the time I used to when I lived at home because I'm moving the last of the shit out of my hotel room and into my car. I'll then drive 3 minutes to work, and when I punch out I will head down to Joliet to my new home. It's been a long time since I've lived with pets, and they have dogs, ferrets and a cat, so that should be fun. But moving tomorrow will suck. I'll experience my first commute to Joliet at the worst hour you can possibly drive there. I'm already trying to think of a way to skip 83, but I think I'm fucked one way or the other on that.

But yes, my time here is done, and I'm grateful. I won't have a lot of privacy where I'm going, but that shouldn't be too troublesome.

I'm going to get to bed early so I can get up early. Tomorrow shan't be pleasant . . .

The kid upstairs is jumping up and down in place. He sometimes does that late at night in case someone is trying to sleep.