Manual Farewell to Fatigue

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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 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.

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    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.

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    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.