Sunday night I slept 15 hours. I got up for about an hour, then went back to bed and slept two more hours.
I woke in a panic about my dog. “My landlord hates my dog. Her big rough farm dog hates my dog. I’ve been trying to put in plans for someone to come up from Asheville to get Pancho if I die, but I’m not trusting those plans to be solid. I have to get out of here.”
I went from being so weak I could not walk to the bathroom and was peeing in a jar next to the bed – to spending the next eight hours moving out of my apartment and driving down to Spruce Pine, where my friend had reserved a motel room.
3 p.m. Dancing in the park