Every morning: the Ritual of the Pills. A bowl of high-fiber cereal with skim milk and a tall glass of water to go with it. Wait thirty minutes. Take pills. Go on with life. It’s a ritual I never fail to go through. I’m a more devout pill-taker than I ever was a Catholic.
There are four pills in my morning cocktail. One keeps my heart from spasming out of control. Another keeps my kidneys open so that I flush toxins effectively—and piss no less than fifteen times a day. The third helps prop up my half-dead liver and keeps the toxins from seeping into my brain. And the last one is the greatest insult: a multivitamin to keep me strong and healthy.
Every day I wake up at seven. I have two alarm clocks, and one of them is across the room, plugged into a pair of extra-loud stereo speakers. I wake up at seven without fail. If I don’t wake up at seven, the Ritual will be interrupted, and the gods of cardiac arrhythmia, of kidney failure, of liver failure, of rickets may well smite me. Mine is a Greek- or African-style church: a church of a great many small gods. The god of fiber keeps the pills from eating holes in my stomach or boxing my fragile kidneys. The god of water makes sure my blood stays relatively nontoxic.
