Cereal, as a Heart Attack

I spoke with a friend of mine this week. She was very distraught, rude to customers at her retail job -- very unlike her. What's goin on? I asked. She had read the coroner's report on the recent death of her husband. Sudden heart attack, completely shocking -- "He was at the doctor's two weeks before, and he said he was fine!"
Doctors. Can't live with em.
I noticed, to continue this tack, that I felt kinda ok with my life and ailments until I looked me up in the DSM 4. Then I became a statistic, and I didn't like that at all. I am a real live human. Goddammit. It made me feel very small and desperate to read a description of my symptoms, my life!, in an encyclopedia. Kind of the opposite of googling yourself. You haven't done anything cool and unique in the DSM 4. Or 5, for that matter.

I ate a potato.
I threw away half.
I bought Donettes. God, they rule!
I felt ill and had cravings.
I felt sad and almost cried.
I cried.
I played and played and played the music.
I wrote and wrote and wrote for someone else.
Then I wrote for me, and that felt really good. And someone else liked that music.
I bought a set of strings. And a funny shoulder rest with yellow screw-in parts.
I wrote a thoughtless email. And then sent it.
I took a yoga class and threw up in my mouth.
I saved someone's life.
I deliberately rear-ended a Bonneville.
I broke things.
I took pills for hypertension every day for almost twenty years.
Thank God for that!
?
I was "there" for a friend.
I had no friend.
I had a body for years.
I got older and still had that body.
I failed to fulfill promises.
I forgot your name.
I forgot my name.
I named my forgetting.
I named it Silas.