PART 7

Nightmares. Nightmares. My mom was getting her face pounded in… in a bathroom of gold and black. My childhood dog was bitting the man’s hand as I came in the room and kicked him in the back of the head. The scene should have cut to me saying, “This isn’t over till you’re fucking dead.” Instead, the man slumped over bloody and didn’t move. At lest I woke up aware and strangely in a good mood. Stress. Stress. I worry about what to put my q tips in, my attitude towards a waitress, if I’ll miss trash day next week. No one wants to look like they are trying too hard and no one wants to be seen with someone who looks like they are trying too hard. Find the middle line and tear it in two. If not… drive through road blocks to the nearest corn field, set up LCD lighting, blast Leonard Cohen on a sound system with speakers pointed at the sky, and wait for a ship to take you away. If you return? That means you’re a bore. If you’re gone forever? You became king.