Things are bad. My pre-frontal cortex has reached such miserable spectral mass that my head can’t even contain it. There are ghosts coming out of my ears and tear ducts at all hours of the day. One of them rings a bell in the corner of my room. Another one, at night, whispers my name to me as I’m falling asleep. One of them clogs the toilet with mucus-laden diarrhea. It’s not mine, I swear.
I can’t keep them at bay. Today, I went to Target and they all started vomiting on the floor. I was slipping everywhere, falling on my ass and impacting my tailbone. A crowd gathered around me, cheering for “the crazy guy.” I’m not crazy, I swear.
Melanie bursts into the room, taking the door off its hinges. She sits down right next to me on the couch, but backward. She stares at the wall.
“What day is it today?” She asks.
“Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday. Not sure which.”
She sighs in relief. She turns around to sit normally. “Good. Good. I thought it was Monday.”
“Could be.”
“Mhmm.”
I get up and grab a beer from the fridge. I am celebrating that I don’t know what day it is. I’ve come so far. The ghosts haven’t shown their faces again since the incident at the Target. I finish the beer while I’m standing at the fridge. I might has well have swallowed the bottle like a fat, glassy pill. I take another. This time I do swallow the bottle. I’m hoping my stomach acids can digest glass. I dunno. I don’t want to read about it. Let it be a surprise. Then, one day, when the glass is corroded enough, aged beer will spill directly into my stomach. It’ll be so fermented and rank that I’ll be instantly drunk.
Will I be driving? Will I be pleading not guilty? Who knows.