A chemical imbalance is toeing the line. Toeing the line is sexy and something of a thrill. My brain is thrilling and my mind is loopy. I’m thinking a tangled skein. The pictures of grey matter that look like mushed lima beans are fine and well, but I’ve got string cheese for brains and a staggering imbalance. The dizziness is abating. It wasn’t an ear infection after all– just from tension. You’re two tents, said the doctor! It was four months of being dizzy. As a result I dislike anything surreal and save my approbation for the controlled acrobat. He’s just doing his job.
I’ve got a hippocampus larger than an almond, folks. That means my sense of direction is better than the average girl’s and still less than TomTom’s. I’ll tell you what’s strange, is people. People are strange and here’s another thing: I’m sociable and a stranger. I’d housesit for you but I’ll find and eat all your fancy cheese. Then there’s the question of whether you want a sociable stranger with a chemical imbalance sitting on your tiled floor eating your fancy cheese while paradigms and escatological queries are immanentizing.
“That’s a lovely brain you have, Miss.” *sidling
“Why thank you, Friend. I could point you to Houston even in a sandstorm.” *bridling
There are sandstorms in Texas. There must be.
Anyway, the paper is nothing but text and ink, my novels are fiction, as is my craigslist ad for my car (lies, all lies) — and the paradoxes are still raging unabated. As in, where should I look for peace? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
The neighborhoods of Carrboro are mapped out. I’ve run them all. I’ve dead-ended every cul-de-sac, flown every dull-de-crac. On Oak Lane the smell of cedar was incredibly strong. A bug flew into my eye and a South American man stopped to examine my eye. He said, I often find the sensation of the insect remains even when it has physically left.
This can’t possibly be the end. I’m twenty-five and I refuse to take Oprah’s tests called how old would you be if you didn’t know your birthday? I’d be a seer dizzy with vertigo, an enthusiastic wall-flower, I’d be the phantom bug in your eye, irritating you still.