March 11th, Year of the Vampires

I have taken on too much. Mine is a plate filled with fruit on meat, fat on wheat, dry cakes wrapped in lettuce. Coo-coo-cachoo! Where is Mrs. Robinson when you need her, and was she like me, in her younger days?

Chatter, blather, does not matter. Breathy whispers, followed by blood-curdling screams. The children leave their shoes on the floor. No worries, the dog will find a place for them, in the holes he digs. My heart flutters, my throat is dry. The cat urinated on the bible. Dry it off, it is still good for something. Ah, could you, shh. The pantry is bare. No, there are Indian mealmoths. That clock is wrong, that one is mistaken. Oh no, do not say so. That shampoo bottle is filled with water. Someone has put body lotion in my food. Clank, the bank account is empty. The car runs on an agnostic’s prayer. Put-put, pow.

The interesting thing about lobotomies, is that they happened at all. I am not going anywhere with this. It’s all bullshit. Montague Summers and his erudite contributions to the occult. The moon when it’s visible in broad daylight. Pebbles stuck inside my shoes. Expensive perfume that ends up smelling like cotton candy, after an hour. Freeway exit prophets and their cardboard signs. Women with saline solution breast implants. Cody as a squire for one of Satan’s knights. The fear that who I am, and what I have been through, will always frighten a man into leaving. Brussels sprouts resembling tiny heads. The way a man always looks so pathetic putting on a condom. Bullshit.

March 11th, Year of the Vampires

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