I’ve been sitting here for the past half hour or so, tracing my face with the end of a pencil. This isn’t my home, my chair, or my size font, and I feel like I’m sitting in front of an Ouija board, wishing I didn’t have to do all the work. You’d think my clothes would spark with the static cling of cable, and that I would be ON, but it’s as though I’m numb to the speed. Or maybe that’s just my ass, constantly having to readjust in the hopeless search for comfort on a motorized cart my grandmother parked here as a chair.
She had some kind of surgery done, as all old people are getting. I forget if anyone told me what exactly fell off or wasn’t working well, but she came home today and I was graciously volunteered to get dropped off for the night. Her house has boxes piled from the floor to the ceiling, some kind of gigantic attic cleanout that only got worse with time. Time also killed off grandpa, so I’m balancing the weight of a crater while crammed in a dark corner. This monitor is blasting white light on the walls in a bad way, reminding me of a thousand lonely people mistaking the same color for glow in an IM buddy’s eyes. My screens don’t do this; this is some kind of sad vacuum.
Elvis just serenaded me through a urine deposit. Grandma plays the radio in the bathroom, all hours of the day. I can hear Jeopardy in her bedroom, and some kind of show in the living room with people singing that stuff like “Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair”. I bet she has a thing about filling the place with noise, specifically, voice. It gives the rooms a sense of pulse. God, I hope hers doesn’t stop on my watch.
My own thoughts fail to entertain me. I can’t seem to get crazy for anything, tonight. There’s a bottle of Codine resting on the back of the toilet. That’s all I’m saying.