Chopped Carrots and Gastric Juices in my Hair

Monday, for 10 minutes this morning, I drink my coffee and believe in god, maybe it’s just the Adderall kicking in.

I need to pee such a flood I imagine a tiny toilet Noah building a raft of toilet paper to take two of every germ on before I rain destruction. I then realize that germs likely reproduce asexually and toilet Noah could make a smaller raft.

I sing into the internet hoping to hear my name spoken back to me.

I think of my job working with the elderly who can no longer sing the songs of their lives, the cruelty of Dementia killing the identity forged in the soul, taking all that is the individual, chewing it up and spitting back in chunks.

I am a sad atheist for 20 minutes.

This depression is lifted when I realize I have set the kitchen on fire, yet again. My dreamy mind never holds on to the concrete dangers of my existence. As soon as I avert this disaster, I become obsessed with Korean plastic surgery, submental liposuction, lateral canthoplasty, V line surgery, secret smile surgery. Anesthesia is like death but I would wake with the face of an Angel, a face worthy of sympathy, a face that defeats the clock oppression. I think god must exist between the blackness and the knife.

I remember the refrigerator is empty. I can never remember when I last showered.

I feel like an actress born to be a star but with a drunken brain. I disappoint because I lost the script, I stumble and destroy set pieces. There are times when I am told my methods are magic and I should send these dreams to the editor. But I already hate the editor, in his pompous literary hat, dreaming of his reflection glorified. I am no one’s mirror.

I swear I will get it together tomorrow. I will find a healthy way to eat all things sweet and make my muscles strong and right. I will wash the chopped carrots and gastric juices from my hair.

For now, I try to remember that there are angels in heaven whose job it is to love the Babylonians.

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