August 2010. Orlando, Florida.
So I’ve collapsed on the floor of my kitchen. The floor is dirty but I don’t care. Cat hairs, onion skins, a cornflake. There are these brief moments of almost silence, while I contain it. And in between, the cat comes in, regards me, with the ears back and then the eyes wide and disturbed while I wail “Whyyyyyyyyyyy?” or some gurgled rendition of “I fucking love youuuuuuuuuu.”
This is followed by body-shaking sobs, and----all together now---the blowfish puffed-up face, this red ball that resembles me slightly. And, with the wailing, comes the slapping of the cold gray tiles. Then the almost silence again.
And I hate fucking every last thing. I especially hate that we ever met.
My knees are weak. I really can’t get up. In a flash of memory, I am right back there at that stupid bar. The scene of what should really be called a crime. That damn bar where he stopped me while I was walking out. He was cute but not that cute and I remember being irritated because he was holding me up. And why, when he asked for my phone number, did I give it to him? I said no way, the first time, and then he said, oh come on, I’m a nice guy.
A nice guy.
My ass.
If only that moment had never been, I wouldn’t be here on this cold and dirty floor tonight, slapping the tiles, frightening the cat, wishing it all back.
Love makes you crazy. Every song ever written will tell you that. Every story ever worth reading or seeing or hearing about is the same regurgitated tale of love---lost, regained, lost again---just like sand through somebody’s knobby fingers, and for what? To feel like this? Like this out-of-my-mind zombie who is about to pull herself off this goddamn floor, pull on a dirty baseball cap and drive, angrily drive while listening to loud angry music, to go buy a homeless guy’s version of Jim Beam and some gingerale to chase it down with. At home on the couch. Yes, alone, thank you. Shameless self-medication. Oh hell yes.
And the couch. Goddamnit. His old, stinky, masturbated and farted on couch. That, too.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!!” The cat’s terrified now. I’m terrified.
Nothing makes sense. I want to smash things. I want to rip up all of his stupid, fucking, bullshit letters. I want to slash his tires, slash the tires to his stupid car that he thinks is cool but isn't, I want to be breathing heavy in the dark, heart pounding at the prospect of getting caught, leering outside the window like Glenn Close boiling that rabbit. Slash his tires. And hers. Throw eggs on everything. I think these thoughts, sure. They help get it out. I can imagine his hunky dory, huh what, ass coming out in the morning with his fresh brewed to-go mug steaming, her lame bye-sweetie smile in the doorway or some shit, his key in the ignition. And…..scene. Go nowhere ass clown. Gotcha.
But I don’t.
I may be crazy but I'm not insane.
And maybe I'm not crazy. Maybe I'm just misunderstood.
The coldness of the tile has broken through my sweatpants. My ass is officially a new temperature. Two cheeks at 74 degrees Fahrenheit cold.
It’s time to get up, girl. Baseball cap awaits. Jim Beam is calling.
So I go. I drive. I do. I run and hide from my own mind. And, for the moment, on that hideous couch, everything is calm. Everything is just fine.
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