Oh, what’s this feeling that I’m feeling? (Though, more importantly, How long as it been there? because even though the question’s only just been posed, it’s difficult to remember anything else). Am I ill? Because my guts are going crazy, alternately performing jump rope tricks and coiling back onto themselves, a disgusting jumbled lump. Am I sad? I must have tipped my chair back too far, because I fell out of this particular scene. Clambering back to my place within it – I look around and it’s not there. The gap’s been filled, the sound turned down. The act continues without me in it. Am I scared? In the corner – there? Do you see it? It’s hard to make out, but it’s waiting. I am not ready for this. This is going to be bad. Am I angry? these questions ignite an internal ribbon of gasoline and whoosh: ALL OF THIS IS BULLSHIT. NONE OF THIS IS REAL. WHY IS IT SO REAL? Hate the brain, hate the body, hate everything, hate everyone.
“You seemed unreasonably terrified.” Man! That’s a good one! We all need to be called out on our own bullshit and this was my two-word bitch-slap. Unreasonably terrified. Thank you. You get it. You probably don’t think that you do, but you obviously do, because that right there? I laughed until I damn-near wet myself. And the feeling I was feeling – when was the last time I felt that way? – it’s difficult to remember; it’s quietly packing up all its shit and vacating the brain space where so many other productive and pleasant things usually live.
the sloppy copy 