Microphones. Popped buttons. Papercuts.
There, on my left side, at the edge of my ribcage, is a strange red welt that won’t go away. You know what that means, right? That plus the mole and the ache in my lower back. It’s only a matter of time.
I stand under the skylight, drying myself from the shower, and awareness zaps me like a beam from above: someone is watching me through the glass! I can’t see them but I know they’re out there so I scurry into a dark corner and pull on some clothes.
Later, I’ve got my computer on my lap and I’m trying to check my email but I can’t move a muscle with that webcam staring at me like some hostile cyclops so I try to fix it with a little piece of paper and some scotch tape.
Then I’m at a party sipping from a plastic cup and they’re playing some good music and it’s supposed to be fun but I’m thinking about baby albatrosses dying on Midway Island, how their tiny stomachs are so crammed with plastic they have no room for food.
This is wine I’m drinking, good red wine that fills my nose and mouth like liquid incense and I’m going to have to drink more and more to quench, to feed, this flickering desire. I know I shouldn’t drink but I can’t throw it away because what if there was an earthquake, what if the big one hit and this plastic glass was all I had left, so I take another sip
and it hits me: one day I’m going to do it. I’m going to open my mouth and let slip something awful, something so dark or wrong or ugly or true I can’t cover up again. It will slide from my mouth like a viscous blob and lie there in the sunlight, twitching and pulsing for everyone to see, and they’ll all run, screaming, and they won’t ever come back and this clot of indigestible matter will be all I have left for company.
(This litany might of course have been triggered by the lovely terrifying fact that my last post was Freshly Pressed and so of course this post is doomed. But! Hahahaha. Please humor me and add your worry to the list. Pretty please?)