Читать книгу Dead Writers in Rehab - Paul Bassett Davies - Страница 21

Dear Diary, I feel so awfully jolly and bucked up that I may get through the whole day without bashing my head against the wall.

Will that do, kids? No, I know it won’t. But a blank page is worse than an empty glass. At least you can gaze at an empty glass and imagine what might fill it. Maybe that’s the idea: they set a task that gives you such a dandy headache you forget about any other pain that’s making you feel sorry for yourself. It’s just the kind of scurvy trick that doctors will play in their determination to help you, despite your unwavering ingratitude.

It is certainly horrible here, but I would be a fine louse to complain too much, for I am ever the optimist and I’m sure it’s doing me some good. Anyway, I had better quit crabbing about these present straits as I haven’t a damn thing to say that will make them any better. Instead, as instructed, I shall try to describe my feelings. (I may have to excuse myself to go be a little sick on account of it, because you never know what you will find when you get to lifting up rocks in this way.)

Well, let’s see. I’m sleeping more and crying less, and it’s been several days since I’ve woken up screaming with hysterical laughter because I can’t get a drink. Yesterday I thought about what it would be like never to have a drink again, and today I thought about the same thing without breaking into a cold sweat. I am even able to pen these few poor scraps after only a few hours’ hesitation, and not have the yips come stealing over me. Progress, of a kind. I’m beginning to notice the sunshine, and the birds outside, even though they’re too small to eat. That’s another thing: I have an appetite. I ate a traditional breakfast today, but without the martini.

And now there is a new man. Not bad looking; maybe a little old and overweight but he has a certain something, and I know where he keeps it. I’ll admit he may not be the perfect answer to the lisping prayers of an innocent maiden, but that description ceased to fit me many moons ago, and if the inevitable should by any chance happen there may be trouble and I will be in it. I know myself only too well. It’s a fascinating subject but it gets a little predictable after a while.