We Write What We Know

We write what we know.  Be it the dark sheen of grime coated walls in squat houses, the drop of lead in the lower intestine when you know you’ve just made a choice that’s gonna screw you over, or the wail of the drunk lady who won’t tell you why she’s drinking.  These things are known.  No one ever writes about … never mind.  Some idiots will write about anything; even knitting sweaters for feral cats.  I had a ghost cat end up in the guacamole once.  Long story, you wouldn’t get it.  Maybe you would, but not unless you knew what I know, which you don’t.  There used to be an abandoned hospital near my house.  I would go there with my friends to break stuff and ‘tempt the supernatural.’  We were really good at convincing ourselves that we believed; that we weren’t scared.  The shit we told each other, that the other person then had to pretend to believe, was incredible.  Anyway, I stopped going there after my then-boyfriend took some thirteen year old girl down there and screwed her in the old exam room.  Sleaze ball.  Being human, I stick to what I’m comfortable with, what I know.  In this case, it’s sleaze balls and certain brands of vodka.  I’m very good at locating both.  I’ve been in a black hole for a while.  Call it treatment, therapy, what have you.  It was time.  Everything outside my mental terrarium is different, but ultimately the same.  People are gone.  People are dead.  People are serving time because they were too permafried to realize that flashing lights and sirens mean ‘run, you idiot, run.’  Something in me has changed.  I’m older, less impulsive, less inclined to hold everything in and then drink until I puked everything out.  My hair is longer and a color I hadn’t seen since middle school.  I’m not too happy with the way I look, but then, no one ever is.  I’m streaming my consciousness, out of control.  Just draining it all out to make room for something, anything new.  It’s not desperation, it’s exasperation.  It’s the apocalypse.  I am Famine.  And I am sucking the last bit of life out.  Like Bunnicula.  Except not quite as furry.  Postmodernism has destroyed the narrative.  Or maybe that was 4chan, but still.  My brain, it leaks. This can’t be healthy.  I’m remembering remembrances.  Maybe it’s vertigo, but I think I’m actually sideways, because I know that’s a rug.  I know a rug when I see one.  I’ve seen The Big Lebowski enough times to know a rug.  Just like I’ve seen this rug enough times to know that I’m not using all my brain cells right now.  But what kind of excuse it that?  Is anyone every using all their brain cells?  Still.  I know I’m in the process of remembering what I did. Whatever that was.  Sometimes when people are smashed they drool and smile a lot.  I discuss literary theory in my head.  Very productive.