Was reading the East Valley Tribune this morning. Back page of the first section, I think it was, a headline read that meth use on the reservation had reached near-crisis levels. I hate this. My thoughts were as follows:

• There’s a reservation less than a mile from here.
• Haven’t done some proper meth for a good long time.
• Wonder how easy it would be to worm in with some native Americans?
• Hanging with injuns would be a fun new twist.

Again, it wasn’t a serious consideration. Just an imagining that lasted only a couple moments. But that was my first reaction.

Meth is bad. (As if crack isn’t, but, I mean, it is.) I’m not going to say it’s a bad sign because I don’t think it determines my future, but it does say something about where I am the process mentally.

Where I am physically is comparable. Significant progress has been made as noted this morning by my departing maternal grandparents who operate under the belief that I contracted some crud in Guatemala, but there’s still plenty to go as noted indirectly by my waking mother this morning whose first words to me were “You had a rough night” in reference to the violent and prolonged coughing fits I suffered through the dark hours. When it was light enough to see, I saw that what came up matched the night in darkness viscosity.