After several weeks of dreaming that my bathrobe was the boogie man, I’ve decided that I am too creative,too imaginative, too intelligent. Hey, Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath both ended up taking the gas pipe. So instead of deep breathing exercises to help calm me, I’ve started breath holding exercises to kill brain cells until I’m stupid enough to enjoy books about the Royal Family and TV shows like General Hospital.
I still live in a constant low level of fear that this, everything I think and see and believe, is just a bunch of crap I made up in my head while locked up in an insane asylum.
It doesn’t keep me up nights, though. I kind of picture it as a huge courtyard, teeming with people of all walks of life, all with fresh lobotomy scars. They roam around with vacant eyes, bumping gently into each other. In one corner enters an unassuming-looking man in a grey jumpsuit named Jesus Buddha McFucius. He sits down in the middle of the mass of people and begins playing a flute carved from the femur of his dead grandmother.