I hope someone isn’t mean to me today. I don’t think I can take it. I can’t trust myself if someone gets in my way. Anyone. I’ve been on a mad tear lately, laying low, because I’m scared to go outside. Monica has been printing out my emails and taking dictation for my urgent columns. I never would’ve asked but she offered. I think she got worried after I spent three days wrapped in a shawl in a plastic coffin in our basement.
Look, it’s not a big deal; we got it when I went through a goth phase. All the funeral parlors talked nasty to us so we got one at a joke store. Something about Halloween. I don’t celebrate holidays. At least, I don’t think I do. I don’t remember. I’m a little out of it, drinking too much expired syrup down here in the basement. I should probably stop drinking the rainwater leaking in through the walls and the rotting cellar doors.
“Cellar door.” Didn’t Shakespeare say something about that? Or Hitchcock? I love old authors, back when you could curse in a book. One time I was reading a book and my mother walked by and grabbed the spine with her mouth and flung it over the reef and into the drain. She got up in my face and, in sotto voce, said, “Don’t you ever read, boy. Don’t you ever read again or I’ll cut ya. I’ll cut your hackle and throw you down in the ravine where you belong. I’m sick of raising you. I’m tired of always having to take care of you and keep you from getting into reading and other deviant activities. Me, personally? I don’t care if you read. I don’t care if you’re a deviant. Hell, I bet you is. Boy, listen. I know it. I’ve seen it. You’re fucked up, and there’s nothing anyone can do… that’s why I’m COMPLETELY EXHAUSTED HAVING TO—”
My memory cuts out there. For years I couldn’t remember anything past “Boy, listen.” But last week when I got the flu I had a dream and remembered more. I don’t want to know what happened because it’s the only memory of my mother. I don’t know where I was raised or how I ended up in the Northeast. I can only account for so many years.
Monica is my anchor. I remember every day I’ve spent with my wonderful saint of a wife. They’ve been amazing, these centuries. I can only imagine how we’ll blossom and bloom in future years. I need to give Bennington a call and get him to bring me some fresh blankets, I’ve soiled these. They’re covered in feather duster and white material, I’m not sure if it’s possible but I may be molting? Every day is a winding road: sometimes you remember, sometimes you don’t. I often feel closer to my childhood than to anything that’s happened since. Maybe that’s why I write. Maybe that’s why I’m wrapped in a soiled shawl in my dark, dank basement and don’t intend on leaving anytime soon. Maybe it’s the Tide Pods. I mean, it could be either. Who knows? Not me, man.
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