Box one: a. Lamictal, Neurontin, and Klonopin for epilepsy. (I hit my head on a rock the first time I went over Niagara Falls in a barrel.) b. Elavil, Prozac, Mellaril, Tegretol, and lithium for bipolar disorder. (Take lithium for a while and you’re a Haitian zombie, no Niagara Falls pioneer.)

Box two: a. Six bottles of Humalog insulin in bubble-wrapped cool packs. I store those in the fridge. b. Blood-sugar strips. A brittle diabetic, I have to test fifteen times a day at eighty cents a strip. c. Glucose tablets for hypoglycemia. d. Glucometer batteries. e. Lancets, alcohol swabs, insulin reservoirs, and soft-set infusion kits.

Box three: a. Lipitor, cholesterol. b. Atacand, blood pressure. c. Nitroglycerin cream for cyanotic toes. d. Provigil for narcolepsy. e. Crap for my sleep apnea ventilator (two blow-dryers up the nostrils work just as well).

April 6. I read the Bible today. I don’t know where Homer comes up with this shit. The only part of the hell scenario I can confirm is the “weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Jesus. I already gnash my teeth. That’s why I wear a plastic tooth guard at night.

April 7. Is it just me, or am I correct in thinking that the only time people have any semblance of fun is when they’re on dope or hard liquor? I was a little kid the last time I had natural fun. Aurora, Illinois, July 25, 1954. The top of the ninth. White Sox versus Boston, the first game of a doubleheader, a partly cloudy, cool day, 26,068 fans. Jack Harshman on the hill mowing them down. Now with an 0-and-2 count, he shakes off the catcher. I am across the street at Pike’s Dairy, throwing waterlogged baseballs, three pounds each, against a rusty milk truck when my mother calls me in to put on my pair of wool pants and go to church. I am thence sucked into a vortex of darkest gloom from which I’ve never been released.

April 14. Los Angeles. A table reading of my fifth film script. Not a good time for a Crohn’s disease flare-up. I tough it out with butt cheeks so tight that coal could be squeezed into diamonds. The reading goes badly. In a CAA men’s room, butt cheeks give way to Hershey-squirt diarrhea. Back in my hotel room, more of the same. On the three-hour plane ride home, a botched attempt at sneaking a fart leads to an episode of explosive diarrhea. I disembark (without underwear) and, in the safety of home, endure the usual agony while I wait for the Lomotil to kick in. I failed to stuff the medication into my portable pharmacy. It was the grave omission of a shock-treatment memory-loss fool. On top of everything else, the script gets shelved.