It’s day whatever. Time has left the building.
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Brian Wilson got nothing on me / I’m under the bed and lost at sea / Rollin’ and tumblin’ and tossin’ and turnin’ / Been under so long my brain is burnin’.
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Playing games is a good way to pass the time advise mental health professionals.
In a thin layer of dust covering the floor I spell out the word ‘dust’. I smile smug. Check.
The floor shakes, rearranges the word into a stellated polyhedral, reminiscent of mid-period Escher. Check and mate.
I just got mopped by the floor. Again.
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Studies indicate that exercise improves mood
I yell at the top of my lungs a multisyllabic obscenity until I’m winded, gasping for air.
Check my mood ring: black.
Consult the mood chart.
“This person is stressed and tense.”
Re-check the headline: Ohhhh, ‘exercise’. I thought that read exorcise.
I need sleep. Sleep doesn’t seem to need me.
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In times like these it’s important to stay in touch with friends, colleagues, loved ones.
“Fear. Is that it?” the black sock says, exasperated.
“Yes-. No-. I don’t know,” I say.
The sock goes quiet.
It seethes.
“She’s in pain. She misses her partner,” a voice says. I turn around. The voice emanates from a brown Oxford Classic right shoe.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?” the shoe says.
“No,” I say. Probably too quickly.
“You sure?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Because I heard rumours her partner was last seen in the garbage,” the shoe says.
I am feeling uneasy with where this conversation is going.
“We’re all in freekin’ pain,” the half bottle of Jack Daniels says. “But that’s no reason to seethe.”
“I think she’s frustrated with me,” I say. “I just don’t know why I’m here.”
“Frustrated or upset?” the right shoe says.
Sweat beads form a posse on my forehead. I feel like I’m the prime suspect in an episode of NBC Dateline. All that’s missing is Keith Morrison.
“Why is anybody anywhere?” We look over toward the bed wheel. It’s the Oxford Classic left shoe.
“Oh, here we go,” says the right shoe. “The world has no meaning. All is futile.”
“In a nutshell,” the left shoe says.
An empty peanut shell in the corner sighs.
“We live. We die,” the left shoe says. “I accept that.”
“Heavy. I would take a swig of myself if I could,” the bottle of Jack says. “Alan…”
The bottle offers itself up. I unscrew the top. Just before I’m about to drink I hear a loud guttural cry.
“J’accuse!”
It’s the sock. She’s on her heel, pointing her toe toward me.
(To Be Continued)
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