Here is what is this about. I don’t know what I’m about. Most people ignore me now and I’m not sure why, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know why, and even if I knew why, I wouldn’t remember anyway. I’m a handful on my best of days. My best of days happened decades ago. I can hardly live with myself. And I’m not. Nobody is. Time is something that speeds by on a billion schedules, pattering its way around the world in an infinitely interactive lacy web. Life billows. I get tired easily and right now I’m imagining the reality of slitting my wrists. I’m scared. I’m tired. I show don’t tell. My brain has stopped functioning, which is exhausting. For once, this isn’t on purpose. I haven’t killed the soldiers in my mind, I haven’t shot them with bullets of xanax and bombs of vodka. My heart-my heart my heart my h-heart hear-t beats to its own fucking drum. I haven’t made it to the store yet, Jerry. I haven’t made it anywhere at all. I have a past. I have a history. I have a story. Stories. I have things. Somewhere. I have a son. I have a heart. I had brain—a brain, which wasn’t a tangled collage of decades of images.
But hey. At least my life gave me some really EXPLOSIVE memories.