Did you ever liquifact in a grocery store? I had a heat illness while shopping. Maybe some day I will be annointed one of those pieces of shit who get ambulanced away from a worse form of heat ailment. Becoming prone to it is a shitty rite of passage. And is annoyingly dual in meaning. Such as either a serious matter, or not. It was a teasing, short lived illness.
It lasted a about a half hour. Like I was telling you about a sea diving adventure, I had finished checking out at the dollar store, with some handy items, like some budget-conscious butcher knives, and an armload of heavy floor mats. I was driven, psychologically, to return to the Dollar Tree store after an earlier bus adventure, shopping for food. I saw the mats, needed them, like a Norse vestal goddess with nice tits, because they will be supreme in the upstairs bathroom (I'm fixing the place up) soI took the second ride down long winding Perrysville Avenue, a snaking squalid highway with many wraps and moustaches.
The perspiration formed like a thick layer of clear shellac, and confusion gathered in the head. It came on swift, like a blond bathyculpian muse, so common here, no where, in Westview, Pennsylvania. As I once was warned by a public health professional, at work, years ago, patients often respond to their illness with denial. "I'm not ill," these fucked up
untermensch will say to their sick-assed self.
The guy at the cash register had given me some shit about the three butcher knives, to which I replied, "just supplying the kitchen, for cooking," but perhaps you already know I am an avid knife thrower, with a target set up in the living room, where I live so Spartan and tasteful.
Feeling wonderfully free and open with all you readers, and thanks, damn it, it matters, I was a mite pissed off about the clerk asking me why I was buying butcher knives. Say it may be a persecution complex, but people into martial arts can be branded with awful misperceptions. I'm a doll. With heat sickness coming on quick while I stuffed my blades in my shoulder bag, and umphed the four heavy floor mats out of the buggy. I felt sick and stigmatized, both at the same fucking time. The sweat was amazingly uniform head to toe, like a layer of clear mylar.
Dizzyness can be a royal flush in the area of dropping dead a little later on. As can an uncharacteristic plasticine perspiration attack, like liquid swat teams. The walk from Dollar Tree to Giant Eagle, the grocery store, with a name like the bird that ate the liver out of Prometheus, in the famous fucking myth that I was forced to read in highschool, by a toothless, bearded hag, like mentioned in the Rolling Stones' song, Junpin' Jack Flash,love that song, was wet and hideous. The duds I had on were drenching with perspiration, just thin cotton shorts with cargo pockets, and a wife beater type shirt, which I normally look cool in, but at the moment resembled a common wife beater in the throes of a heat sickness, as from the physical exertion in spouse abuse. Sickness is ugly. So the fucking is falling weak, inside a grocery store.
Thank heaven for climate control inside Giant Eagle. Not that this was great shakes. The coffee was cold as Satan's scaly unmentionables, and this was not the first time the food court was neglected by store staff. Not that I know what I looked like at the time, but I could feel the sweat exuding like a thick body suit. When I used the cotton bandana that I keep in my shoulder bag, in became soaked, merely from rubbing it on my face. The clerk I bought the shit coffee from was looking at me wierd, no doubt for looking like another middle aged piece of shit who might hit the floor and have to be ambulanced off, quiet and quick as possible, efficient as a corporation, and with urgency so much greater than having decent fucking coffee. I may have looked like some sort of nameless oddity, to the grudging, young, underpaid clerks.
I sat at a table, sweating, confused, weak, with real fucking heat illness, not sure what kind, drinking the cold Bold Brazillian I'd just paid about two bucks for. Most worrysome of all, the fear of butt sweat, the sweat that gives a wet spot, or spots, or an entirety, where one wants to be least noticed for wettness. It was all sweat, nothing worse, but it was ugly. Double ugly. The air conditioning in the store, and the fucking awful coffee, from out of a pump dispenser that was last touched by Emporor Napoleon had positive effect, though the place be dank. I lucked out again, that the bus home was also air conditioned, enough to keep from getting sicker. In fact, the ugly, banging conveyance had a healing effect, the cool air reviving my poor, soggy, sick old ass. People used to believe medicine had to taste bad to be good, but that's a different kind of disease. People are sick with their confidence in sick, sick now. Like any certainty, at all, might make you sick.
