(i’ll spell check it tomorrow, i promise. for now just wince along and enjoy the only mistakes i made were proper nouns, so spell check was usless. feel free to keep wincing)

where to begin, where to begin

i think, perhaps, my mother could be turning into some sort of closeted pill popping addict. Nothing serious though… nothing a psychiatrist would provide (aside #4: could, should, whichever…). She’s down the shore right now, and i’m feeding our cat. Except for, “down the shore” definitely means something like “meeting my dealer to score some really good shit.”

Good shit being strong antibiotics, and maybe some cough syrup laced with codeine.

However, “feeding the cat” definitely only means feeding the cat.

Our household has always been known to hoard prescription medication, and my mother getting a nursing degree only made things worse. What can i say, we enjoy being well prepared. However, when i just hit the medicine cabinet for some Benadryl because i can’t even see straight enough to work the teevee remote (aside #6: yet, i can still type) i found myself wading in the midst of what has to be fifty bottles of medication. Fifty! Tiny blue pills, shiny green pills, pills that rat-a-tat-tat in their brown glass bottles, purple pills that look for the life of me a lot like Starburst. And that isn’t even counting herbal supplements. The entire counter below the cabinet is all charcoal and cell salts and et cetera.

(Aside #1: i forgot my bestest truth on my list of truths and lies. when i was five i overdosed on cell salts because i thought they tasted like vanilla. i was at my dad’s place which in my memory seems as though it was desperately hanging onto the seventies, and i opened the lid because nothing was childproofed back then and they all just slid out onto the glass table in an avalanche of melt-in-your-mouth goodness and i wondered how many i could fit under my tongue all at once.)

I haven’t fed the cat yet. Any minute now.

We really do live in a culture of the quick fix subscription to things: medication, magazines, cable teevee. I’m currently reading Survivor by Chuck Pal-something-Fight-Club-niuk, and it seems to be all about putting patches on things that aren’t really fixable. So far. Chuck loves to write about criminally fucked up men and the strange alluring women who motivate their plots – and he definitely could do worse. (Aside #2: Where is my strange & alluring plot motivator? All of his seem like they’re written for Helena Bonham Carter, or a very strung-out Angelina Jolie after all this Tomb Raider hype blows over. But, what am i saying, i had my plot motivator and this is my novel. Silly boy.). Survivor doesn’t beat my last solid read-through Plan B, but it has Club beat hands down. The guy is gunning to be the next Vonnegut, and how many other authors do you read that sit in puddles of their own blood and urine for fun and leisure?

Yeah, certainly not this one. Or, at least, i tend not to immortalize my tales of blood and urine by posting them to the internet. My face feels like it’s melting but that’s just my allergies, but this is so incredibly bad that i can’t even seem to focus on anything for very long and i really need that benadryl and at least my mom could hoard something fun like opium or something, but no, it’s all bladder supplements and pain relievers. Damn you, St. John’s Wort… damn you to hell.

(Aside #3: This whole aside thing is rather clumsy, but all my html purist friends complain if i make a link with a title-tag that shows my aside but then the link leads nowhere. I might have to start using the infamous footnote, because my parenthetical comments are really turning into blogs of their own. but, i digress for now…)

This house is a funny empty thing. Me and the cat, and he doesn’t seem to like me so much right now despite me being the keeper of the can opener. We have mirrors on either side of my living room and i often just have the urge to stand in the middle of the two totally naked just to see my infinite naked images stretching into eternity as the mirrors echo and echo themselves. This again goes back to the fact that i love to exhibit, but i also love to perfect, so in the end i’ll wind up just like radiohead, crafting until the product becomes obscured. Perfectionist exhibitionists all turn out narcissists ’cause they have to listen to themselves so much to get it right.

So, anyhow, the point is that i could never do an all-nude review, but i definitely should have a webcam. But, in the absence of that, i could honestly just pound my fist into the wall until it shattered (aside #5: my fist, that is) into a thousand shards and no one would ever hear or know or anything. I started to do it because it seemed like a way to pass the time, but after a while my hand started to vaguely ache and the wall seemed somewhat unfazed and the whole ordeal reminded me of when Selina would do the same thing so i stopped and want back to staring into our unassuming little medicine cabinet.

This is so different from my apartment, where all sorts of little noises creep in from room to room and from floor to ceiling. My apartment bleeds living human noises from corner to floorboard. Here i don’t have any noise with me. It’s just these clackity keys clacking away, and the cat shuffling up and down the stairs trying not to let me notice him, and silence upon silence upon silence. Where to begin?