Nothing good. The things I've seen in the last thirty years? God, I'm counting the seconds before they give me the needle. Then I can finally fucking forget. It's just who you are. A young woman will show up soon after. Smile, but not too much. Ask questions, but not too many.
A woman sitting on the park bench, reading the same paragraph in her book over and over. Ignore them. But… I had to try, you know? For both our sakes. We found it, Eric. We found the truth. The screen, and the VCR, shut off simultaneously. The LED glare leaves a ghostly after image. Create account or Sign in. International SCP Hub.
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Farewell – A Last Post from Anne Örtegren - Health Rising
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Farewell Fatigue (Paperback)
Restless legs syndrome. As I understand it, abiraterone turns off the adrenal glands, thereby depriving prostate cancers of their favourite nourishment, testosterone. Presumably, I have also been without adrenaline for two years and impervious to loud bangs. I tolerated the drug easily until about three months ago, when the common side effect of fatigue sneaked up on me and whacked me over the back of the head with a lead-filled sock.
The glad morning when I swallowed the last four pills and chucked the 24th and final empty tub at the bin was the Saturday before last. I rose, dressed, packed an overnight bag, and flew EasyJet from Bristol to Nice for a birthday party. As one of the first guests to arrive, I helped with the last-minute party arrangements.
It was an outdoor party and I was given the job of placing candles in a variety of lamps and jamjars and arranging them on the terrace where I thought the candlelight would be most useful and atmospheric. I put off numerous insistent offers of that sacramental first drink, and was going about my task conscientiously, when I looked at the clock, subtracted an hour, and realised that 20 minutes had already gone since the late kick-off at the Etihad stadium where Manchester City were playing West Ham.
Borrowing an iPad, and googling the latest score, I saw that the Hammers were 0—2 up.
Fragment the load
Suffice to say that after decades of scepticism and disappointment, the start of the season under our inspirational new manager has felt like a religious revival. And here we were, away to City and two goals up after 20 minutes — yet more signs and wonders. The sun sank, dusk turned to darkness, and with my lips moving in silent prayer that the lads would hang on during the second half, I went around the terrace with a taper, lighting the candles.
The guests began to arrive: expatriate middle-class English couples; some local French faces; a leavening trio of gallus working-class Glaswegian women.
I accepted that drink and mingled, my mind a thousand miles north. The next time I looked at the clock it was full-time at the Etihad, so I excused myself and crept to the iPad again. The lads had held on. I was on cloud nine. Now I had a birthday to celebrate. Party on! We danced and sang and sang and danced by the light of the half-moon and candles.