Postpsuedomodernesque

I write things down. Sometimes they can be funny, sometimes they are sad. Most times they are pretentious and other times they are false.

Conspiracy to Live

Everything in this room is asymmetrical. Everything. The refrigerator doesn’t compliment the dirty dishes and the stove is beginning to become restless, the rust has over taken the metal on the burner and I’m sure that it’s given me some sort of disease, maybe gangrene  or herpes. I’m not sure who that rust has been with over the years. The walls crackle and shift with touch, and began to close in, but never quite gain the composure or gusto to be much of a threat. The floor seems complacent enough, but I can’t be sure of its intentions. Floors can be treacherous. I once had a friend who trusted a floor. It collapsed and he fell five stories to his death, or he was just hospitalized, or whatever.

Watching my feet as I moved across the floor (watching the floor as well). I am Indiana Jones. I am Sylvester Stallone in Cliffhanger. I try to hold onto quarters for as long as I can, but I can’t seem to keep them from falling forever into the cracks in these hardwood floors. I am alone in a studio apartment. I haven’t spoken to a single person in two days. I feel that I should go grocery shopping more frequently in an attempt to see more people. I should plan and make a long list and cook at home. People respect shoppers with lists. These people are planners. They are type A. They run the world. Or maybe they’re hungry; I can’t make these distinctions.

The mirrors in this house seem to be lying to me. They’ve made my eyes crooked and my nose large.

“Sam, where the fuck are you?” John seemed angry. John is unaware of existential crises

“My furniture is conspiring against me, and I have locked my self inside my bathroom. I think the toilet is becoming sentient as well though and I don’t like my chances here.”

“Sam, shut up, it’s four o’clock in the afternoon and you were supposed to be here an hour ago,”

“The walls are shaking, moving in,”

“You should probably call your landlord about that. I don’t think that’s supposed to happen.”

“In my mind, Sam. The walls in my mind are compressing. I can’t think, I can’t breath.”

Was it in my mind? I could swear it was in my mind, but who can be sure?

I am not crazy. There are plenty of crazy people in this world running naked on the streets. I have yet to join them. I have had the urges that we all have (I hope) of slapping pizza boxes out of people’s hands and yelling random sentiments about bric-a-brac to angry Italians. But, I do not act on these impulses; baby carriages remain unspit in and old ladies continue an unfondled existence. I’m not crazy because in spite of everything, I know my thoughts are.

“Sam, I’m still on the fucking phone,”

“Okay, I’m leaving these obstinate furnishings. To the marketplace.”

“We’re going to a fucking party you lunatic,”

“There is much more food at the market place John. We should look into changing these plans.”

“We’re not going to the marketplace. Just eat on the way.”

“Does this party have vegan foods, like cookies and the like?”

“Why the fuck do you care? We had shrimp yesterday and you eat hot dogs like every night before dinner.”

“I just want to know about the vegan offerings. What if by the time I get there I become vegan? I can’t tell when these urges may occur.

“Sam——“

“Shhhh, the walls they said something.”

“We both know they didn’t say anything”

“Oh they said something they’re being very tight lipped right now, but they said something.”

“Walls don’t even fucking have lips.”

“Neither do parrots John, neither do parrots.”

Either the walls were vibrating or John hung up on me. Either way there are things going on that I can’t begin to explain or understand. I have been screaming at random intervals to make sure that my voice box still works, and I’m not sure if I’m still doing that.

Pizza, I should go get a slice of pizza. Pizza sounds like both an expectable and possibly admirable use of my time, but does it lack the grandiose nature that I desire. If I die on my way to get a slice of pizza, what will my tombstone say? What will my obituary read? Years of learning, conditioning, psychological, pseudo-psychological and over use of the prefix pseudo will all come down to my last actions. Here lies, Samuel Haywood, he valued the slice above all other things. Fuck this, I’m ordering in. I can’t be forced to make these decisions. How can one chose their own obituary let alone lunch. These decisions are important and can’t be left up to someone as scatter brained as I.

“Alright did your laundry basket finally stop touching your genitals?”

“First of all I would ask you not to make light of the continuous sexual harassment I receive from my hamper. Second, I don’t believe my bedroom behavior is of any concern to you Mr. Lee.”

“Mr. Lee? This is again, John.”

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