I'm Influenced by The Toasters Around Me

I'm feeling it.

I'm somewhere in my head that I'm not supposed to be. Have you ever had that feeling before. You found a new, dark chamber in your skull and all the bats are flying around in the belfry and the rats and roaches scurry about the cold stone floors. Yeah, this is your brain. This is your brain on drugs. Prescribed drugs that is. My brain is saturated with drugs. It's fucking amazing that I can function at all with all of these shits in my bloodstream, pickling my brain.



Abilify, Lamictal, Wellbutrin and soon a fourth rider of the Apocalypse hard on the edges of the setting sun. I wait for him with open arms. I think the hyperactivity is getting the best of me. Maybe I will burn out eventually. Maybe now I'm starting to feel it. I had two and a half hours of sleep last night, and I hated to give my body that. I was in full effect. I had finished my screenplay. Ripped right through it in fact, while writing my blog at the same fucking time. Imagine that? Do your thoughts race fast enough that you can jump back and forth between two written works and keep a semblance of a train of thought between the two of them? Try THAT shit!



THEN, like a curse, it hit me. My brain just fogged up. It just went all hazy on me and I started to just...I can't explain it. Flag? Mentally. Like flutter away? Is that possible? I could not hold onto a sentence longer then five words. I quickly, as if a valve was opened behind my ear, began losing my train of thoughts. All of them. The amazing voices in my head were growing quickly silent. I had struck the MOTHERFUCKING WALL. I stood up, completely uncomfortable, confused. I didn't know what to do, I couldn't even think straight to know what to do. So I fell back upon my baser instincts (no...I didn't go out looking for a blowjob) I felt sheer panic and fear. Like any animal that can't understand what's going on, it turns frightened, or angry, or just plain runs.



Something, I don't know, rational thought? Something kicked in and told me, I NEED SLEEP. So in fear, I crawled into bed, not even sleepy. My fear? Not being able to write ever again. To not be able to blog or write poems or novels. Of not being able to find the words for my feelings. I'm beside myself, looking up at the clock. Eleven in the morning. I'm not even sleepy. I was out cold in a second. I slept for only twenty minutes. What's that about? I feel pretty good. I feel like I can think now. I can hear all of the voices chattering in my head, dying to be heard. My fingers can't move fast enough for all of them.



I'm feeling good again, until I realized something that made me worry. WORRY in a BIG way. My fear of not being able to write was Irrational. When your fears become irrational that is the clearest sign that it's an OCD soothing behavior. My writing may be my response to fear. My fears have encroached upon my daily life finally. It sneaked up on me clearly. Everyone who suffers from OCD knows that one day, a list of small behaviors or one godawful major one will overtake your life. I was so afraid of this fact, that I went overboard with my disorders, pushing hard to keep them at bay. Except one...One that I never even considered as a Disorder Behavior. Writing!



I have to write every day. Every day. I have to cover a certain amount of pages, or I can't sleep. It gets in the way of my eating. I eat around my writing. It gets in the way of my television watching, or house cleaning. I do these things at ten minute pauses...FROM WRITING. I can write straight, my fingers flying for hours but I can only do anything else for ten minutes. I think I've been looking for the enemy in all the usual suspects and the real culprit was my sidekick. I would never have thought that writing is an OCD for me, but if the evidence was ever more damning, writing would get the death penalty.



I sit on the edge of my bed, sitting back so that I can't reach my keyboard. I'm waiting just to see how long I can NOT write. Try that? Almost before ten minutes I'm feeling that I'm wasting my time. I'm just wasting time trying to prove a silly point. My life is falling in on me. Soon I'll be back on the street if I can't write something to sell and get me out of this mess. Every second that I am not making progress is a second wasted. The pull got to be so great that it was mind numbing. I felt that I was going to snap and scream out.



That was when there was a resounding boom against my door. Loud voices outside. My thoughts now scatter. Paula and her crones were out in front of my door again. I'm growing hot now. I'm angry now at them for no reason whatsoever. Am I really angry at them, or me for torturing myself just a minute ago? They became the focus of my rage. There was another blow against my door. My fists clenched. I drove my rage up from the deep fires in my belly, up the chest and through the heart like a sewer pipe and filling my face with blood. I stood up as the voices grew more louder, more frantic. I reached for my door to snatch it open, but I froze just centimeters away from the knob. There was the unmistakable squawk of a police radio.



I frowned, moved close to the door and looked through the peephole. There was a group of EMTs around a gurney and cops. They were across our narrow hall bum rushing Paula's apartment. This was confusing to me, because while I was torturing myself inside, people were at the same time, for over ten minutes, knocking on her door outside, imploring her to let them in. A constant when it comes to her door. Either its her or someone else banging to be let in. This day was no different. This was who I thought was banging on my door. Her asshole friends stepping back into my door for some reason or another, but instead it was the rubber padded corner of the gurney.



What the fuck? There was an inhuman groaning of three officers as they dead weight lifted Paula, who has the dimensions of an Amazonian Samoan. They muscled her limp body out of the room, and with Atlas-like effort, hauled her heavy ass up and onto the gurney. When done, they were some three drained assed cops. The three of them staggered back, giving room for the EMTs to straighten her out on the gurney and put an air mask on her face, a sheet over her body and finally belting her in. Then they left with Security closing and locking her door.



I wondered what could knock someone out so completely that you are dead weight to men trying to lift you? I know it's not alcohol, but then again, maybe yes, it could. However this felt like something else. Nevertheless she had friends that would come and check up on her. I wondered if I were to die of...say something slow, like a bacterial infection, or some kind of deadly virus that's transmitted though bad meat, like Mad Cow. I wake up paralyzed the first day. My arms and legs slack, my jaw gaped open, tongue lolling. The only thing I can move is my eyes. This is Monday. I will get ONE email that I know of. Luck will cause any more.



The sun settles. Tuesday. I have not moved, cannot speak, my mouth is dry, my stomach is doing back-flips from hunger. There are no other emails. Facebook gives me a few useless notices. Several birthdays coming up, blah, blah, blah.  The New York Times notices come in too. North Korea, Afghanistan, Don't ask don't tell, blah, blah, blah. I know all of this because my computer would be on, and the arriving email causes a chime to ring and a notice, including the subject, would rise in a banner in the lower left hand corner of the screen.



On Wed- nesday. There is another email. Maybe one that I know might appear. There is another com- menting on something that I wrote on the blog. Funny, now that the blog is running on automatic and I have a backlog nearly two weeks long everyone thinks that I'm blogging daily. Ha ha ha. I get fan mail in my other account but it doesn't cause my notice to chime. My skin has begun to dry, shrinking back towards my bones as the body starts to squeeze every drop of water from fat. Even robbing necessary moisture from the eyes, leaving them burning and unable to move.



On Thursday I look like skin and bones practically. My blood- stream grows thicker and thicker, building my blood pressure until my heart cannot push blood through the veins. Capillaries fail, my fingertips and toes turn black from necrosis. This cellular death rises to engulf my calves, and forearms. I may get a few more emails. I will most definitely get some from the New York Times and one or two more from Facebook and a site selling Viagra.



On Friday the necrosis, moving like a fast black cancer, has claimed my shoulders and lower torso. The heart is struggling to keep only two organs with blood now, itself and the brain. Every other organ can go to Hell, which it is. I'll get another email or two. I'll keep blogging. The room will begin to smell. This is the trigger, the sign of death that calls insects. Flies build around the window outside, crowd the air conditioner and crawl under the space of the front door. Roaches are also not to be neglected. With their marching army they draw rats who feed off them like popcorn.

Friday night, very late. An IM or two pop up. Am I there? Can I speak now? When there is no response, good night.



Saturday, the room reeks with the stench. The crows, gathering in front of my door to have their usual loud conver- sations with Paula complain and bang on the door for me to throw out my garbage until they see roaches crawling along the corners of the floor and shoot into the apartment under the door. The hall is filled with flies. Cellular death strikes the brain, it dissolves into paste, the heart finally fails. There are only spots on my upper torso that still have skin. The legs and forearms are gone, consumed by the vermin. maggots begin to hatch in the deeper portions of my body where decay makes it warm enough to incubate the fly eggs.

Another email pops up. My mother's friend telling me to call my mother.



Sunday, the neighbors finally complain to Security about the awful stench. The Security guard comes upstairs with a parade of nosy women and crowd around him as he first knocks on the door and then unlocks it. Swinging it open the first thing that strikes them is the pungent, nauseating stench. The women run off, like the rats, flies and roaches swarming the body. The security guard slams the door closed and runs away on his tip toes as roaches fill the floor of the hall, fleeing.



Later, mostly toward evening, paramedics arrive with a special body bag, filled with an odor fighting agent and plastic zipper teeth, capable of cutting off the smell of death. Going in first are the exterminators, blasting the room, killing off the vermin and sweeping up their tiny bodies. They get trashed also in black bags. Then the paramedics zip open the body bag on the floor, grab the mattress by the edges, tip it over and allow my body to roll off and onto the bag. From there it is zipped shut and carried away. The bed is sprayed down with another agent to retard it's smell and kill off any maggots that still crawl and swarm under the body where it was still warm. The mattress is dragged from the room. The room is cleaned, my items collected and boxed for later claiming.

A week later, someone else moves in. What a lovely room.



Naaaah, that won't happen to me boys and girls. My OCD would not have allowed me to stay paralyzed for over ten minutes before making me get the fuck up. That's why, right after Paula was carried away, I jumped behind my laptop and penned this post.

Ahhhh, so good to be writing again.

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