58.

I fiddle with the cabinet, desperately looking for a latch. Like a dog clawing and scrapping at the door they'll never get open. I'm about to give up when I put some pressure on the door and it swings open. I'm met with disappointment. No little orange bottles filled with hope and day dreams. Wake up sleepy Jean. Nothing but band-aids, tooth paste, and tampons greet me. I close the door and see my reflection in the mirror again and I wanna crash my fists into it. I snarl at myself and spit at the glass. My liquid rage lands right on my mirrored cheek. It slowly starts to drip down as I turn to get in the shower. It's one of those tub/shower combo's. I turn the knob and let the water run for a minute before I pull the little tab that switches it from tub faucet to shower head. I test the water with my hand and turn the knob back a little. Too hot. Never know how a shower is gonna be. All different. I step in and feel the sudden stinging of countless beads of water hit my body. I scrub away the filth with whatever fruit flavored body wash shit I find. I wash my hair with some more fruity flavored garbage, stuff that smells more like candy than soap. I finish and turn the water off. I step out and the air feels freezing on my skin. I hate that about showers, one second you're warm and safe. The next you're plunged out into the cold, naked and scared. Like fresh babes cast forth suddenly from their once safe womb. I grab a towel off the rack and dry myself. I rub my head and for a second I smell something sweet. This must be her towel. I breathe deep and neatly unwhirl her towel from my body. I carefully fold it and gently place it back on the rack. I grab another towel and it feels ruff and crusty. I know it's the kids immediately. I act swiftly as to remove this Brillo pad as quickly as possible from my skin. I slap the clothes onto my still wet new born back. The hot water steamed the mirror up but I can still see my spit drip down. I wipe it up the kid's towel and toss it unto the rack. I step out into the hallway and hear music playing. Poppy new shit. I leave wet foot prints on the old wood floor. Each print smaller and lighter than the last.

57.

I finish cleaning and tightening the hammock up properly in relatively short time. I have no idea what time it was when I woke up. I have no idea what time it is now. I fish out some not clean, but not recently worn clothes out of my bag. I head up stairs and go exploring. I start opening doors till I eventually find the bathroom. The whole thing makes me think of last night, being the big prize winner on the game show. I smirk and laugh to myself. Nobody else seems to be home. The house creeks and farts with every step I take. It aches and shifts and moves like a living thing and I love it for it. I'll name you Hugo. Hugo the house. The bathroom door is probably three times as old as me and it has the shittiest lock I've ever seen. I hold my weight against the door to try and close it as much as possible. I turn the old brass knob hoping its properly locked, but I don't even really know if it is. I give the shitty latch the stink eye, I feel betrayed.

"Don't you understand that when you see a lock, you're instantly given this sense of security? Of dependability and reliability? But I can't trust you! I don't know who to trust."

I'm very disappointed in the lock. Hugo has problem areas that need toning. I close the toilet lid and throw my clothes down on top. I shed my sweaty layers and plop them down on the floor. They hit with a moist slap. I stand naked and I'm disappointed in myself. Nothing extra disappointing, just the normal sort of disappointment I'm sure every person feels when they look at themselves completely.

I'm too (blank).
Not enough (blank).

I'm only a few minutes into my self-loathing when my better judgment takes over and I remember all the wonderful things people keep in bathroom cabinets. I rethink the phrase better judgment.

56.

In my zombie like state of booze and pills and sleep deprivation I did a piss poor job of hanging up the hammock. I'm looking like a big letter U and my back and neck are killing me. I did not make the hammock tight enough. Karma is slapping me the face for stealing it. Despite the pain, I feel pretty decent. Not really hung over and I'm waking up in someplace vaguely familiar. Someplace that is home. I head up stairs to the kitchen and throw some water on my face. I go the closet with the crafty doorknob and I'm met with no resistance this time. I grab some cleaning stuff. Mundane stuff. I stomp down stairs to my dungeon and I vacuum. It's ordinary. No need for explanations or fancy metaphors. Fuck off.

55.

My drunk GPS pities me and speaks in 0's and 1's to my other robot parts. They think just because I don't speak binary that it means I can't understand them. 0101010110, motherfucker. I'm almost off shit row when I notice one particularly decorative shit mansion. Lion statues guard the palace steps. How fucking regal. There's a hammock hanging between big trees in the front yard. Hammocks are pretty sweet, I need a bed, and I hate these assholes. Destiny shines brightly towards my thievish nature. I stroll quickly, well as quickly as a drunk asshole can move at least, across the wild grass. The morning has brought new spilled dew upon the blades, nature's wet dream. I feel the moisture creep into my shoddy shoes as I pull out these tent stakes pinning the hammock to the tree. Thick long stakes, real biblical torture shit.

Insert Stigmata allegory.

I free the fine thing from it's oppressive masters and roll it up like one might roll a sleeping bag. I nurture the abandoned thing, carefully not letting any of the hammock touch the damp ground. Snugly wound, I think of yo-yo's and my stomach churns. I burp again and hope not to loose any more medication. I pocket the tent stakes and scurry off into the night. Wild criminal on the run. When I can finally see my new home in sight the moonlight is all but gone now. The dangling partial orb fades slowly, like a dying light bulb.

54.

I can't believe some of the cars parked along greek row. I just realized what an insult that is to my buddy Poseidon. This shit ain't greek, just cause you put latin shit on the front of your shit palace doesn't make it greek. Poseidon weeps at the mishandled legacy of his people. But whatever, fucking spoiled kids with spoiled cars. If I had it in me, I'd piss on all these shinny expensive toys. Worthless boxes almost as expensive and pointless as their college education. Take that yuppies, feel the scalding bitter wit of a college dropout. Look at me, I don't need a degree, I'm doing just fine. The crickets come back. My head starts to ache and my stomach gets all rumbly again so I take it out on a new blue Prius. My eyes constantly switch in out of focus, like that test they make you do at the eye doctor. Number 1, or number 2? Number 1, or number 2? I chose number 1 and I mosey on over to some shinny looking beemer and piss all over the passenger side door handle. My piss is dark and black, like oil. Thick and sluggish, life choking. Or it might just be the drugs creeping in. It makes me contemplate a second Seconal but then I remember the one I buried at sea and I know I shouldn't waste the good stuff. That's for special occasions. I settle for a pair of Vicodin I had stashed away with Altoids in one of those little red tins. Those tins are absolutely great for not smashing the stuff, way better than a plastic baggie. Far more discreet as well. I love these little things, these little tin coffins for burying my squandered potential. Why the fuck do these houses have these ridiculous columns? Poor poor Poseidon. Is this travesty of greco-roman architecture suppose to impress? Inspire ideas of long lasting antiquity? Fuck off, it didn't work. You can't polish a turd. That fancy looking house with the lovely chocolate coating has nothing but shit flavoring inside. Just spilled Miller, herpes, vomit, and morons inside. I wish I had to piss again.

53.

I hit a cross street I think I recognize and my drunk GPS steers me to my new home. I feel dried crusted blood and snot on my forehead. War paint. Fucking homophobe deserved it. I stumble down the street, each step wild and erratic. My balance is atrocious, the ground feels unstable and ever shifting. Like the deck of a boat at sea, tilting every which way, but the way you need. I see blinding white lights scream towards me. Maybe a car, maybe a train, maybe a rocket ship. It speeds past me, roaring down the street, I hear endless wailing. Not sure if it's in ecstasy or agony. My drunk GPS tells me to turn left and I obey. I burp something foul and taste the familiar memories of vomit. Too much mixing boozes tonight. Too much scavenging and salvaging. I lean against a tree and let it loose. A rainbow sea of bile spills out of me. Every color, every flavor. I see a little red tamale of a Seconal hidden amongst the shore of puke and almost instinctively I reach out to grab it. But somewhere, some tiny little thing I barely know called self restraint stops me. I try to ignore it, to not be wasteful of the good fun stuff but his argument is compelling. I say goodbye to my little red friend.

"You are gone, but not forgotten."

52.

I crash into your normal stereotypical green hedge. The rectangle bush you always think of when you hear the word "hedge". I'm greeted with plenty of "What the fuck(s)!" as I emerge from my green tomb. The hedge does a pretty mediocre job of breaking my fall. I feel fresh scratches and cuts all over my arms and legs. Saves me the trouble of doing it to myself later I guess. The drunk confused children stare unblinking at me. Their eyes wide and blank, like tiny terrible portals into their wasted adolescence. I'm glad I broke them away from their tweets and status updates. I smile and limp off into the night. I stumble a few blocks and plop down on the sidewalk to rest a moment and I'm gone. I close my eyes just for a second and I'm time traveling away from myself. I wake up in the future and I'm throwing empty beer bottles at a church. I know I'm going to hell. An Ave. Rat is holding a pit bull on a leash on the adjacent cross street. He's laughing and cheering me on. I hear screaming and bull whips cracking. I dedicate my next few bottles to my number one fan. I let loose the first pitch and chuck away. I throw them fast and hard and finish a perfect game. The stadium roars with love and approval. Poseidon heralds my victory with thunderous applause. The Greek gods just don't get the respect they deserve nowadays. I bow and stumble off into the dark, not quite sure where I'm going.

51.

The nose is just so Goddamn perfect for surprise attacks. It's this big old button just sitting there in the center of your face. Just sitting there begging you to hit it, and it rewards your sucker punch so well. It stings, it bleeds, it makes your eyes get all fuzzy and water up. And when I make contact with this asshat's nose, I realize I really am on a game show. His nose the big red buzzer of victory. I reel my head back and as he tumbles backwards and I feel his snot on my face, like confetti raining down on the set. Raining down on the grand prize winner. He screams in sudden pain and his voice is buzzer heralding my winnings.

I'm the champ.

I choose door number 3 for my big prize. I shove past him towards the last closed door when I see the girl with birds in her eyes walk up the stairs. Douche bag tool, had to ruin everything. I want to stop and stare at her but I hustle past and push on towards door number 3. I grab the handle and throw it wide in record time. I add quick draw champ to my extensive resume. I see darkness at first and I feel the wall on both sides of the door. Groping blindly for a light switch, desperate nervous hands feel frantically for salvation. A teen tries to unhook his first girlfriend's bra. He fails Miserably. I hear the tool shout, "Stop that faggot" and I feel justified. This asshole make's me feel good about myself for first time in awhile. What does that say about him? My eyes focus in the dark and I realize there's no light switch because door number 3 lead outside to a balcony. I step outside and slam the door behind me. I consider my options and make the most logical decision. I shout "Fuck you homophobe!" and dive off the balcony.

50.

I slam the door and move onto Door Number 2. I think this was the room the Joe Cocker imitation and lies where coming from. I jiggle the handle and I'm met with sudden resistance. It's locked, this could be good or it could be bad. It could be locked cause it's a bathroom and someone's taking a shit, or it could be bad cause it's just some dick's bedroom and he locked the door cause he didn't want any drunks rifling through his vast porn collection. Hmmm... I press my ear against the door and stick my finger in the other. I close my eyes as if shutting out one sense will heighten another. I hear crappy modern R&B music playing and I hear what sounds like someone punching a pig in the stomach. Its sporadic and wild, no rhythm or tempo. My detective skills tell me someone's fucking. I oink loudly and turn towards Door Number 3. God, do I wish it's a potty. I move towards my last hope when who do I see come up the stairs? Mr. Mole. He bumps into the passed out girl I adopted from and doesn't even seem to care. Man on a mission. I'm trapped upstairs with him. Not a lot of options now. Maybe he'll miss me and walk right past. He peers around and immediately spots me. Our eyes meet and Mortal Kombat music starts playing. He hustles towards me and I realize that he's an awfully tiny man. Probably like 5 foot 3 at best. Real little, like a dog you carry around in your purse. He struts his tiny stuff right up to me and greets me with a firm shove. Right off the get go. I just incite violence in everyone, don't I?

"I just got a text from my bro that some fucking weirdo busted in upstairs and shouted some bullshit about drugs and youtube. I'm assuming that's you, faggot?" he spits between clenched teeth and finger jabs. Tiny little fingers, like a toddlers, prodding me in the chest. I'm trying to not let the rage wash over me, but me and Poseidon care little for homophobes. And someone texted him from upstairs to downstairs? Lazy fucking homophobes at that. I stick my neck and chin out, just begging him to deck me. I coyly mutter, "Yeah, well I don't like your hairy fat fucking mole."

His lips curl in and I can see a little boy cry behind those asshole's eyes. I think I hit a nerve. Even though the pendulums broken and gone and I still feel myself shift suddenly. I can't control myself and I start to feel bad about what I said. That was uncalled for wasn't it? I try to make it up to him and apologize by telling him that he, "has very nice eyebrows". And instead of accepting my compliment and playing it cool he just spews out, "Oh. So now you're hitting on me, faggot?"

Fucking homophobe.

I close my eyes and tilt back and then crash my forehead into the top of his nose.

49.

I stumble down the hall, avoiding eye contact with any plastic person I come across. I'm lucky cause most of them are too busy plugged into their iphones and blackberry's to look up. I could strip naked and scream about how I'm going to murder them all and they would only notice when one of their friends made a tweet about it.

@allmyassholeacquaintancesicallfriends - Holy shit naked dude just walked by screaming he was gonna kill me. Drama much?

I'm alone and laughing with myself. It's so damn hot in this house. Why? It dons on me suddenly how badly I need to piss. Which door leads to the commode? I strafe back and forth eying each door, looking for any indication that it might be the pisser. It appears I'm forced to be on a game show now instead. Just closed doors, hidden prizes. Out some where amongst them lies a pristine white bowl of relief, of sanctuary. Man, I've got to piss. I pounce on the closest door to me, Door Number 1. I turn the knob and swing wide the door just to find disappointment. Kids sitting on a bed gathered around a laptop watching videos on youtube. More plugged in ineffectuals. There's a small girl sitting in a wheelchair and I'm confused because I can't tell if she really needs it or not. It's a shitty old metal chair. The kind that easily collapses in the center. I don't think she needs and I suddenly have the urge to tip her over. I settle for other deranged behavior.

"What are you children DOING? YOUTUBE? FUCK! Don't you know there are drugs here you could be doing?

48.

I start slowly clapping. I start rhythmically chanting, "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!" and in no time five people are following suit. A minute later there's twenty of us all jumping and shouting. These assholes don't even know who they're cheering for. I raise an army in a minute and I slip away amidst the distraction. Even Mr. Mole is clapping and cheering along. The girl with birds in her eyes is having no part of the senseless revelry. Bye bye birdie.

I roll upstairs and take a drink off some half passed out girl on the stairs. She's on the top step leaned against the banister, swaying back forth. Rolling in and out. She was gonna waste that booze anyway. Neglectful, irresponsible. Joe Cocker's version of " With a Little Help from My Friends" is playing from some bedroom. I hate it cause it's not The Beatles. I guess I'm just old fashioned apple scruff. I walk the halls dodging drunks when I notice myself finally start to feel it. Sensation slips away and I'm suddenly feeling the heat. I peer in open doors and see second long clips of all sorts of debauchery. Like flipping TV channels I get mere glimpses into others lives. I stop by one door long enough to get the gist of it all. Kids barely out of high school fucking around with Gack. Big mistake. Keep it strictly scientific. Speaking of which, I fish a little red Seconal out of my back pocket. Red like candy, reminiscent of a Hot Tamale. My drugs are classic, timeless even. Not like that shit those kids are fucking with. Jamming cough medicine with any number of other cheap swill. My drugs were made by the greatest drug artists. Scientists in glam rock white lab coats, building a better tomorrow by making us forget yesterday.

47.

I'm trying awfully hard not to just sit here and lurk on this girl. I mill around the living room scouting for more abandoned booze, but my eyes never leave her. Her eye liner runs out to the edges of her face, in these swooping lines. They look like little bird wings. She squirms and shifts constantly, clearly uncomfortable. She's holding her drink like a crutch. "Foxy lady" comes on and her head kind of picks up. Wings flutter about. I pound another drink, vodka cranberry this time, and my head perks up too. That bitching guitar riff kicks off and I see her start to sway, but we're barely thirty seconds in and some bastard changes it to some modern auto tuned to all shit rap song. The weight falls back on her crutch. I like her already and I wanna go over there and make small chat about how lame it is that someone changed the music, but I can't. Too damn awkward, too damn nervous. I'm trying to make up some bullshit reason as to why she would even want to talk to me when I spot Mr. Mole. Party police bro. His eyes dart around and he's moving with the kind of haste that means he's looking for something important. He's looking for me.

46.

I walk through the house skittering between the party goers. An unwanted house guest, a rat creeping past unseen. I find new adoptions in every room. I step into the living room and I finally notice someone who doesn't look like a cardboard cut out. She looks almost as out as place as me. She's wearing this baggy burgundy turtle neck sweater thing that goes down to her knees. Is it suppose to be a dress? She has black leggings on underneath, old things plagued with scattered holes. Not self inflicted trendy holes. Real holes. From aging, from being worn out, from being lived in. She looks so silly among the other girls at the party. It's September and freezing but that seems to hardly affect their wardrobe. She looks bored, her hip jutted out with attitude. The cardboard cut outs giggle right on cue, all in sync and she laughs a little too loud and always late. Her laugh is harsh and fake, she's mocking them right in their faces and their too dumb, or think too little of her, to really notice. I smile and adopt another lonesome drink. Gin and cranberry juice. Tastes like a pine tree.

45.

I'm maybe 8 adoptions down, maybe 2 real drinks, when I start feeling bad for Mr. Mole. I bet he's awfully self-conscious about that thing. Why am I so damn judgmental? The booze plus all the other shit in my system is taking me places I never wanted to go. I'm such a fucking hypocrite. I get lucky and find a mostly full cup. I slip the full cup into my original adoption. It slides in smoothly, snugly. They get along great. I finish the drink in one sad long pull. I immediately recognize the mix of orange juice and vodka. The vodka burn creeps up the back of my throat into the backdoor of my nose, and it spills out with a pleasant familiar stinging. I feel the heat in my stomach and I feel something start to slip away. That's what this is about. It's about getting fucked up. Forgetting everything, feeling nothing but the distance between your current state and your former self. Doing everything you can to keep that distance going for as long as possible. For it to never end. I'm drifting out to sea, to that lonesome empty blue when some jackasses come reel me back to reality. These two tooly bro looking guys try and make small chat but all I feel is rage again. Their lips move but I just hear high pitched buzzing. They stretch out open hands, kind considerations for a pleasant introduction but I just ignore them and walk off.

44.

It's crowded and dark enough in the kitchen that no one seems to see my first adoption. My humanitarianism goes unnoticed. Dark brown liquid comes up to about a third of the red plastic cup. I'm sorry no one wanted you little guy, I'll love you for who you are. I throw it back and imagine the sea crashing into the shore. The sea tastes like cheap rum and shitty cola. I think the sugar and the acid from the cola burns more than the rum. I keep the empty cup in hand, my new found vessel for self destruction. From then on I just find more abandoned little ones and take them in. I win an Oscar and an Emmy for my performance as I glide around the kitchen stealthily pouring more left overs into my original cup. One man's unwanted booze and backwash is another man's treasure. Remember Chumbawumba? Remember Tubthumping? Well if you do, great. If you don't, fuck you. I'm pilfering a grab bag of the strangest assortment. A whiskey drink. A vodka drink. A gin drink. I don't know if that's what tubthumping is, but I'm doing it.

43.

The night air is crisp and stinging. It's late at night and I know it has to be Friday or maybe Saturday. Either way, its the U district, that means kids are getting drunk. It takes 10 minutes for me to find a party. A horde of kids on a porch, red Solo cups in hand. The smell of vomit and cigarettes. A party of people coming together just so they can be alone. I tromp up the stairs catching wide eyed glimpses. I shrug 'em off. Play it aloof. I step through the front door and some tool in a pink polo, collar popped of course, spots me. I can tell he's wondering 'who the fuck is that bum?' He's got this big old mole on his right cheek. Protruding thing really, little hairs jutting off it. Like flags planted atop a vast peak. It's real 3-D, coming right at me. I don't like it. I see his fingers tighten round his Solo cup and I can tell he's getting ready to shout something at me but I give a quick smile and a head nod to some dude behind him. My implication that I know someone works and he turns his head to see who it was I was motioning towards. While he's turned I scoot into the kitchen before he has a chance to see me. Real smooooooth. Sometimes a nod is as good as a wink. I got probably 20 minutes I figure before he finds me again and kicks me out. I see some half empties abandoned, so I adopt them. Because I'm that damn generous.

42.

I step upstairs with great direction. Meditated steps, a pace of renewed purpose. I'm going to celebrate. I'm gonna get fucked up tonight.

I shove the basement door, it swings open like those little half doors you see in western saloons. The things that look like shutters. I brush the dirt off my shoulders and give a little thanks to the great Jay-Z in the sky when I look up and see that girl again. I forgot about her. She's sitting at the kitchen table reading a magazine while water boils in a pot on the stove. She looks up at me and tilts her head to left, like she's inspecting me. What was her name? Linda? Kali? I can't remember. Our eyes meet and I start to leave but her words cut me off. "I heard shouting from downstairs. And maybe animal noises."

Oh yeah. My sweat burns and my left knee starts to itch intensely. Something that resembles a sock scampers across the kitchen floor. My eyes follow it as it darts into the living room, when he exits I come back to her face. Eyes wide and looking up, waiting for an answer. I shut my eyes and push the hallucinations out. "I have one of those tapes of animal noises, you know what I'm talking about. Sounds of nature. I like that kind of stuff. I find it sooooooothing." My answer seems to satisfy and I see 10,000 lady bugs appear and disappear and then appear again. They scuttle and shift silently, covering everything. Enveloping the kitchen. I slam my eyes shut again and open them gratefully returning to normalcy. She stares blankly at me. Her hair turns to snakes and I turn to stone. She opens her mouth and her words shatter me. "Cool. I'm a vegan so I'm kinda into nature too." The lady bugs come back.

"What's a vegan?", I question. The lady bugs morph into crickets.

Recovery and Relapse; 41.

Post epiphany. I take some time to clear my mind and calm myself. Let's try and stay on course now. I almost feel a little better about myself but apparently I just completely destroyed all the work I just completed. My mini mountain I just swept has been leveled and the basement is back to filthy. Stay positive. It's a minor setback. Let's focus on the positive. My heart is mighty and it's glowing laser beam of love could blow a whole straight through this planet. A deep dark hole straight to hell. Who cares about sweeping? Fuck it. I can do it later. Good old procrastination bailing me out, so dependable. Let's place progress on hold and and and just stay on track with keeping the wolves of regress at bay. I think I'll go out, that might be positively therapeutic. I head towards the stairs and as my arms swing with each step, I get a little wiff of my arm pits. It's not the greatest smell, it's a kind of mixture of Parmesan cheese and coffee grounds. That old man must have no sense of smell, or was outrageously desperate. I shed my filthy clothes and try to decide on what's the cleanest thing I own. Not a tremendous amount of options. I settle on some less hole-y tan shorts and a plain black t-shirt. I put on some clean-ish high black socks and slip back into my ragged shoes. I dig out an ancient stick of deodorant and scrape the tiny remnants upon my crusty coffee cheesy pits. I might almost be semi-acceptable for a social setting now. .

40.

I muster out a "Yeah. Cool", and mope away. I drag my broom behind me, and slump down into my dungeon. I do an excellent Charlie Brown impersonation. Sad and dejected now, I fear my high might be dying. I still have no idea what time it is. I sweep and clean the basement and then I weep. I don't even know when the last time I had sex was. I don't even know when the last time I was loved was.

That's a lie,actually. Because 5 months and never are the answers respectively. Well, that might be too generous to my own sense of depressed delusion.

Oh God, my mood really is killing my high. Colors morph back to dull dark tones. Sounds turn down to lame static. My self esteem and pride wither back into the steaming pile of shit they were before. Oh woe is me. I'm so damn pathetic. I'm such a whinny baby. I'm tired and broken and all I ever do is complain about it and desperately try to escape in chemistry and pain. The floor now stands swept and bare except this newly formed mountain of filth in front of me. I stand alone with my few meager possessions and I breath in the stale dank air. Time washes over me. Tick, tock. I feel ten thousand emotions a minute. My pendulum swings so fast it's shape starts to bend and break. It swings faster every second, the crushing wind curving it's metal shape further. I sway about, embracing the impending crash. Faster, faster. Tick, tock, tick, tock. I'm so sad and angry and scared all at the same time, all the damn time. I dig my fingers into my flesh and brace myself. My mind is buried deep in my subconscious while my body's buried deep beneath the earth inside this concrete mausoleum. The cacophony suits my temperament. Enough is enough is enough. Time to grow up and shut the fuck up. Things are better and it's time to stop feeling so damn sorry for myself all the time. Times have been bad, but they could have been worse. Come on, stop being such a fucking turd. No more to and fro, no more back and forth. Let's get on with our life. I scream this all inside my head and once it's done, I repeat it. I repeat it over and over again each time a little slower and a little more genuine. I taste the salt of my tears and feel the pain of my nails dug into my flesh and I am reborn. Perhaps, not quite so dramatic or extravagant, but an epiphany is had. I honestly believe myself and I stop crying. Everybody has got to start somewhere. I jump into the massive hill of swept dirt and my feet come pounding down like thunder. The earthquake of my feet creates slow spreading clouds of dust. I stomp and stomp and level it all. I raze my mountain and then raise my flag, announcing to myself that I have conquered me. I kick the remaining remnants and as I do, I feel the pendulum snap. And that's it, no more metronome leading me back and forth between melancholy and macabre.

39.

"Can you teach me how to dance like that", she asks with absolutely no hint of judgment in her tone. My heart heaves and sighs. She surely must be a hallucination.

"Are..... you Lilly?"
"Yes."

Damn. I didn't notice how high the ceilings were in this room. What. My pelvis drags me forward, driving my brain. She's hooked my heart and her soul is pulling me in. I use every single bit of my concentration just to try and focus. To try and not act crazy. I slyly lean against the door and say, "Yeah, I could". James Dean ain't got nuttin' on me. "Cool, I'd like to learn so I could dance like that with my boyfriend." Cars crash into each, babies cry, and terrible screeching sirens ring out indefinitely. My heart is artfully crafted porcelain and her words are a thousand crashing hammers. Shattered. The word "boyfriend" hits me like a bowling ball hurled at my stomach and I feel my face wince up as if I just pooped myself.

38.

I refuse to be bested. I delve into the library of my mind and remember the ultimate solution to any locked passageway. I stand straight as an arrow, hands on my hips, and utter with great authority, "Open Sesame"! The door falls open. Victory is sweet and just. It's contents spill out, flooding the room with vast riches. I plunge into my well earned horde and seize my spoils. A new vacuum cleaner, rolls of wrapping paper, a mop, a garbage can, and a broken table leg. I dig through it all and, like Excalibur shinning brightly in the night, I find my one true broom. She lays lonely on the floor beneath these unworthy subjects. My eyes widen and I salivate. It's my winning lotto ticket, my one true love. I help her to her feet and we dance. We cavort about the kitchen, the endless somber song of my heart carrying out the beat as we waltz. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3. Birth, life, death. Birth, life, death. Birth, life, death. My dance partner and I bond. The song is never ending but we could never dance forever so we give up. I carefully lean her upon the wall and then not so carefully heave everything else back into the closet. I slam the door shut, trapping the crap inside. I turn around and this gorgeous looking girl is watching me. She is glorious. I have no idea how long she has been there. I don't know if it's the pills, but my heart races faster and my knees start to shake. We stare at one another for eternity and I learn everything about her.

37.

I bolt up the stairs and burst through the door. The pale yellow walls of the kitchen sting my pupils and I lash out in pain. I pounce and land upon the kitchen floor. The sticky linoleum clings to my wet flesh. I growl and hiss while my eyeballs comb the room. Broom! Broom, broom, broom! What I need is a broom! I need to sweep my cavernous lair before I can start to set things up. I strut about wildly pouring through every nook. Thank God no one is around to witness this, at least I think no one is around. I think I hear carnival music off in the distance. I've found no broom. There lies a door between the refrigerator and the entryway from the living room that warrants exploration, however. I paw at the Doorknob and it shifts away from me. It stretches back twelve feet and dodges my every grasp. The closer I get, the farther it pulls back. Tricky thing. Fine, I don't need you silly Doorknob, I have better things to do. I'll act uninterested and lure the Doorknob in by creating a clever ruse to fool it. I limbo back and forth under the kitchen table. Due to my prowess as a limbo-er, I'm quickly hailed as the limbo champ. I rise to take my trophy. The crowd cheers and I bow to let my fans know I'm grateful for their praise. The Doorknob is reeled in by all the excitement, and just as I'm about my grab my golden chalice.... I spring forward! My legs push out like fierce great amalgamations of muscle and steel. After all, I wasn't limbo champ for nothin'. The Doorknob's too slow, and I've got my prey inside my clutches. My palms are geysers of sweat, and we struggle and fumble about. I focus my animal adrenaline and deliver the killing blow. The Doorknob falls limp and I feel pride like never before. I go to take my war spoils, but the Doorknob remains stuck. I twist and shake and wiggle it about, but nothing seems to work. Awwwwww, you clever Doorknob you. A fail safe for even if you lost. A worthy adversary indeed, dear Doorknob thee.

36.

I bathe in the cool salt water of my addiction. I let it wash over me and I fully slip into a gleeful sense of debauchery. If my new landlord/best friend knew this was who I was, I don't think he would have rented out to me. Filthy little secrets are the only thing that let us delude others into trusting us. Our society thrives and runs on lies. A fast burning fuel. If anybody really knew what anyone else was really like, they'd want nothing to do with them. Let alone love them. The horrible truth of our own sickening depravity would drive us all away from one another. Our disgust would forge new personal countries, a world of hermits so far removed from one another we would all be driven to extinction. Secrets are the key to our existence. Secrets make the world go round. I have no idea how much time has passed. The lack of windows in the basement could prove detrimental to any sense of time I might have. I writhe with pangs of joy and every joint aches with ecstasy. My fingers spark and crackle with the electric current of the future. I eat dirt and shit rainbows. I breathe ammonia while exhaling perry winkle dew drops. I'm a Glade plug in on drugs. These things really do taste better when you're in a good mood. It's like I licked an exotic hallucinogenic mood ring. With no windows I'm left to soak in artificial light. I shake and shake and shake and hear shouting from upstairs. Maybe Grandpa told his grand kids about their new housemate. There's stomping and shouting and raspy insincere threats. I giggle uncontrollably. I start to feel sleepy and I feel my eyelids start to slide shut like automatic garage doors. Tck, tck, tck, tck, tck. They slowly roll down their tracks. I punch myself in the nose like one might punch the "Snooze" button on their alarm clock. This is no time for sleep. It's time for progress. I jump up from the stairs and down from the stars and let the dark laughter engulf me. I prance and throw my arms wildly about. The giant fleshy blades of my windmill heart. They turn and swing gallantly, fueling my endless rampage. The cold concrete walls reach out to me. Every blemish, every dot juts out, the signal of a giant game of connect the dots. I run about on all fours now, kicking up dust and insect shit. I let loose my distinct howl once more, and bark at my hanging florescent moon. The hunt is on.

35.

I crunch down on the chalk like substance and anxiously await results. Tick, tock. Hurry up. I'm a kid on Christmas Eve. Gimme, gimme, gimme. I just wanna tear into that neatly wrapped gift. My brain digs in and euphoria comes rolling in like tiny waves. Little baby ripples of delirium and delight. The power of the moon has no hold on my ocean and with every breath I take, I feel the tide growing. My pendulum has shifted once again, and I've barely even noticed. This new environment must be doing wonders for me. I feel stable for the first time in a year. Another wave comes barreling in, this one makes my knees shake and my eyes twitch. My teeth feel numb. I feel dizzy in a playful youthful way, like I just spread my arms out and started to spin. Spun and spun and spun. Rinse cycle. I take a seat on the basement stairs and stare at my hands. They feel huge and I swear they start to grow. The tide is growing, and it's a damn good thing I'm already sitting down. With all these water analogies something is going to get soggy and water damaged soon. I hang my head back and this noise pours out of me. It's a noise like nothing else. I'm moaning in a brand new language. It's my own personal howl and it rings out as the tidal wave comes crashing forward.

34.

We conclude our sneaky business and I plunge into my bags and fish out my rarely touched checkbook. I barely know how to even write a check, not a real popular exchange of funds for my generation. "It's only a few days till October so let's just say this is all of October paid up front." I'm almost knocked to my knees by the fact that he's throwing in a week of free rent. I mumble out a "Sounds good to me", that's barely coherent. I can barely fathom the notion of someone cutting me a deal instead of trying to fuck me over. The elderly are a gift, and I feel like crying. This old man has impressed me more than anyone else. He's my new best friend, I should get us matching bracelets. I'm off day dreaming and I know I've got this glassy look washed over my eyes. I'm sure I'm creeping out my new best friend. I really am terrible at first impressions. "Okay, I'll leave you to your settling in. If you go out and get anything and need help carrying it in, just tell me and I'll make the boy help. His name is Thomas by the way. He's a bit of a schmuck, but he's an alright kid, all things considered." I nod and say "thanks", making note to leave out the fact that twenty minutes ago I wanted to shoot his grandson to death with lazers. He trots off upstairs even slower. The basement's fairly large, like one huge open room. It's empty minus this huge furnace mounted in the corner. It's red and brown with rust. It stands defiantly with the words "Hercules-Sears Roebuck" emblazoned upon it. Me and Hercules down in the basement performing all kinds of impressive feats. I find the floor is filthy as I mill about inspecting the place. I'm leaving trails of dusty foot prints all over. The first new steps in ages. Symbolic. I'm living in a prehistoric cave. I need to sweep before I do anything else, and I'm going to need some booze too. I remember the PBR in my back pocket, and quickly chug its ass-warmed contents. Even if it hadn't been warm from the heat of my ass, it'd still taste like shit. Sure it won a blue ribbon, in 18 fucking 93. It's so damn carbonated, it's terrible and foul. My stomach starts to churn. It's like my stomach is a washer, and I just turned it on full blast. Rumble, rumble. I'm set to spin cycle and I feel wretched till I let out a commanding burp. I switch down from spin cycle to cold rinse and feel better. The nasty gin had worn off long before this, so it's like I was back at zero before this beer. My stomach pain has dwindled down and that delicious hint of alcohol is on the rise. We're off to a good start. Definitely need more beer. In the meantime, I dig out my crown royal bag full of "medicine" and take a few. Take two and call me in the morning. Ha. Call me after mourning. Ha, ha.