The allowance of speaker output might provide occasional skips if your eyes are dancing left to right, tonight. There are several different layers spurting several different kinds of crap, and I don’t advise anyone to proceed.
Even though it’s asking for illness, I occasionally pour whole milk over fine grains of chocolate powder and gulp it down with a shameful thirst. Standing in front of magnet-stuck grocery lists on a white fridge door, I’m doomed to play back images of some rodent that approaches electrically-charged cheese and retreats from the shock. Nausea hits moments after, competing with sweet tooth satisfaction as I switch from thoughts of chunk-cheddar to thoughts of my own hand a few feet over, pressing down on an active stove burner. Immediately drawing back in pain. Reaching out again, same burner, same day, same every-fucking-thing – the parallel question, “Just how magnified is this an example that I am not very good at taking care of myself?”
“Maybe that’s why I’m still here at 22. 23? No,…yeah. 22…”Set the empty glass on the counter, a little too forcefully. Wipe mouth with hand. Consider that if you did indeed have a penis, this world could sit on it for all you momentarily cared, cause your tummy hurts. Consider also, that you slammed down a cup of milk like it had been straight vodka, in other words: you’re a dork.
You’re A Dork, Autumn May = A life in the tradition of Charlie Brown titles. You Blew It, Autumn May. Way Off, Autumn May. And so on.
I’m always there, reaching out over the stove, it seems. So familiar with it, it turns me inside out more than replayed shit-singles bullying radioplay. Disgust from every side, remembering those five digits set against the round, heated coil before feeling overwhelmed by inward anger or sleep. (The two don’t know each other, but share hatred for me.)
Then wait a while. Remind me of something good that I haven’t thought about for a long time. Slip on some ice; make me laugh. I’ll be back at the starting line, happy and excited about many little things. Eyeballing that plastic gallon, unscrewing the red cap in excitement. Sprawled out moments later, churning. Confused.
I don’t get me, sometimes. This bitch really throws me for a loop.
Selected highlight/a clue from childhood that I victimized myself: I’m in the car with my babysitter while Mom has left the vehicle to drop something off at grandma’s house. (Reward tidbit for making it this far into my freewrite: same grandma’s husband died yesterday. Sad Valentine’s Day to me; both grandpas are now gone.) I hear my babysitter turn to me and say, “Shh, let’s be quiet – your baby brother fell asleep!” Something horrible begins happening to me – I’m fighting an incredible urge before surrendering to a loud outburst. It was warning, silence, scream. I could not explain myself. I stare out the window, unable to look back at the babysitter. Wishing I could turn back the hands of time and save myself from that embarrassing moment.
The babysitter never said anything. It felt like: Please let us forget that I just screamed for no reason. Now the plastic coco container sits on top of a full garbage sack and I, once again, am unable to explain myself.
You’re Doomed, Autumn May.
My little brother’s cries of thinking he has heart attacks have turned out to be more than his mental condition. Christopher’s heart is inflamed, and I could kick myself in the ass for assuming he didn’t know what he was talking about. I would listen to him tell me he was having a heart attack, or that he had cancer or that he was dying and figure, “Christopher also thinks that his Hulk Hogan action figure once parted its lips and asked him how he was doing, and that aliens walk on the roof above his room at night.” The tests also came back showing his hip cup eroding, and Walking Pnemonia. The whole situation is its own instrument for this song. It’s part of my every thought.
While I’m on the subject of music. Grandma had decided to wait until later yesterday to give Grandpa his gift, but he had passed away at the kitchen table before she got to surprise him with the stuffed animal that dances when you push his button. So she showed me instead.
“He would have loved that. Isn’t that adorable? That was our song.”
Some kind of dog or mouse or fuzzy bear moved around to a short blurb of “For Me And My Gal”, a high-pitched cover to accompany the little stuffed animal’s character. He maneuvered to the battery-charged beat, partially surrounded in the plastic sack. An envelope read “Chester, February 14th 2004” and stuck out from the side in a sad, precious way.
“The bells are ringing for me and my gal!”…
Then my dad walked in from salting her driveway, and Grandma had to tell him, activating the dancing animal again. Soon after, the phone rang and she had to play it into the receiver. By now the bells had other plans for my mental undoing. The story was losing its touch much like a copy of a copy is worse than the original… Forgetting she had already told me, I heard her make her way down the hall to where I was, the plastic sack crinkling in her arms.
I inhaled deeply, but it turned out an unnecessary brace. My smile was genuine.