For the moment, at least, I’m giving up on writing in any coherent, ordered manner. My mind has been racing, darting all over the place, first in one direction, for just long enough to trick you into thinking it’s going to remain linear, before veering off somewhere altogether different. I feel like I’m chasing after it, struggling to keep up. I’m bent over, hands on my thighs, huffing and puffing.

Perhaps this is the result of pushing myself to the limit. The last few days have contained minimal sleep…Two consecutive days that I pulled all-nighters, both times finishing work long after sunrise, stumbling to bed when my eyes started to burn and I could no longer hold a thought in my head; falling asleep only to wake around the same time I normally would, had I retired at a semi-decent hour.

Last night, I slept on the floor at a friend’s apartment. He passed out on the couch long before I did, and I was neither in the mood to wake him nor go home, so I pulled out a comforter and channel-surfed until 3 or 4am. What sleep I managed to get was broken. Something that remains unclear had triggered an intestinal condition, and I was severely bloated and in pain. It took a long time to find a laying position that was comfortable. As soon as I did, and managed to doze, one of the neighbors would go out and slam the front door, or there’d be hooting and hollering at the bar down the road to wake me. Early this morning, my friend tapped me on the shoulder to tell me I was “ridiculous” for “sleeping on the floor like a beggar woman”. I half-mumbled a response before turning over and going back to sleep.

It was 3pm when I finally woke again. My skin felt sticky from the oppressive humidity, so I got up and changed into the shorts and t-shirt I’d left draped over the kitchen chair. I drank some coffee and browsed the internet for news before leaving to go home and shower.

I’d intended on doing some work this afternoon, but wound up researching waste removal options for my sister, instead. I put in a utility payment, and my roommate asked if I was hungry. I spent what seemed like forever looking at menus from the various neighborhood restaurants, looking for something remotely gluten-free before deciding to walk over to MINT to see what their specials were.

I ordered a crabcake and a salad with grilled chicken, only to find I couldn’t eat because my intestines had apparently decided to revolt against me. I had this odd combination of inflammation and nausea, occasionally accompanied by the discomfort of a sharp contraction. All of a sudden, the only food I could tolerate even being near was something incredibly bland. (You’d think the salad would have been safe, considering, but the balsamic reduction on it was just too much). I sucked down a couple of pepsis, had the waitress box everything up, and came back home.

At this point, I’ll admit that there are details I’m intentionally leaving out. Some are irrelevant. Some are just gross. Others are things I just don’t feel like talking about at the moment. Maybe later, but not right now. It will have to suffice for me to say that I was in a somewhat delicate state, both physically and emotionally.

I continued to procrastinate work by browsing Facebook, and a single post by a friend-of-a-friend quoting lyrics from “Intergalactic” had me reduced to tears. I honestly loved Adam Yauch, but for whatever reason, he was never a character in the forefront of my life. I’d had a crush on him at some point early in high school, but not with the same adolescent fervor with which I crushed on Chris Joannou or Trent Reznor. My feelings were more subdued, and perhaps, as a result, more steady and lasting. MCA had been the reason I learned about the Free Tibet movement. He’d been one of the reasons I started looking into Buddhism. I did these things partially because of his influence, but not in some superficial attempt to be “cool” or “trendy”. It’s hard for me to explain, but I guess I saw something in Adam Yauch that I admired. Something that struck me as valuable, and so I sought that out.
I didn’t follow the Beastie Boys closely, though I admired their work (and continue to do so). I suppose in a sense, I took it for granted that their influence would always be there. To say that I took Adam Yauch’s passing hard would be an understatement. The fact that it was from cancer (something that has taken countless friends and family members from me) only adds insult to injury. Upon receiving the news, I walked briskly to my friend’s house around the corner, threw myself on the arm of the couch and announced shrilly, and out of breath:  ”Adam Yauch from the Beastie Boys just died”, followed by a staunch “FUCK cancer”.
Despite the tears I’d had in my eyes, I haven’t actively cried. I haven’t gone on some Beastie-Boys-listening-marathon. In fact, I’ve made an attempt not to seek out their music or videos, because thinking about the loss makes my heart ache. But reading this Rolling Stone interview with Adam Horovitz was enough to break my heart entirely. I didn’t know Yauch, but this pretty much confirms everything I’d thought about him…that he was smart, and passionate. Headstrong, and innovative.I keep coming to the word “genuine” over and over again. The world could do with more like him.

So now, here I am. It’s almost 11:30pm, and I still haven’t written a single word of copy for work. Hell, I haven’t even printed the documents I need to start my assignment yet. I’ve spent the past hour or two thinking, and writing this. Reminiscing with a friend about another friend of ours who passed too soon. Feeling sad, but also more resolved than ever to live as honestly as possible, and to be the best possible version of myself that I can be.