I just stumbled across a photo of myself on the internet that was taken during a very dark time in my life. It was taken in 2002, during my stay at the Coyote Rock rehabilitation facility. If I remember correctly, I was about 14 inches tall at this point. This was my rock bottom. I distinctly remember the doctor bending over and handing me this tiny, baby fish, and demanding that I lick the algae off its gills for sustenance. I, of course, refused. I was as headstrong as I was beautiful. And I was so close to my goal of 10 inches and 15 pounds that I could taste it. I wasn’t going to let anyone stand in my way… even if they could pick me up by pinching the scruff of my neck between their thumb and forefinger.
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This whole thing smells fishy to me.
I need to scale back and get more sleep.
Trouble is I’m on the hook for a lot more writing yet this week.
And my yard … the weeds …
And when I think of fishing … I think of my rod and my tackle … and speaking of rods … I hear OEC … oh, that’s politics for you.
G’night.
Mark. I wouldn’t of recognized you except the expression on your face is unmistakably you.
It would be really, really cool if, when you starved yourself, instead of getting skinny, you just got smaller. That would be SO COOL! Anorexics would be tiny, little people who could walk under chairs! They could live in doll houses! They could bathe in puddles!
You don’t have to be small to bathe in puddles.
Time to reel this’ol thread back in and bait the hook another day.
Think I’ll sing myself to sleep tonight with my old fish camp lullabye … Two’ra Lure’ra Lure’ra.
G’night.
Sleep with the fishes, EgP. G’night.