Tales From The Crypt
Still incredibly ill. Pretty sure the Coldrex pills, bought for a staggering $16, gave my dreams a delirious, heady subject matter. Him outside, talking of ghosts and melanoma. Entering an exact replica of my room, except curled around the hall, a girl inside from my highschool on an old Mac PC. I’d been across the road, in a one-story, low-ceiling-ed warehouse where my current flatmate lived with the girl that stayed at ours a while ago (who tried to kill herself three times in that period). The one with the staples in her arms. And the Him was a casual friend, tall and thin, with a round yet angular face and accent. He said he’d seen me inside my flat, whilst I was across the road. I said I’d never seen myself.
Feelin fancy free, though. Brewed up some black coffee with fresh cinnamon and a vanilla pod. Five sachets of lemsip down to two. Gym’s going to be fun this morning, sneezing away on the elliptical like a crack fiend still running high. I’ve heard the sauna is good for sickness though, at least to chip at this stubborn bitch Fever who has twisted herself snug around my upper arms and forehead, curled upper lip and snarling.
My bed at present looks like some forlorn middle-aged woman has been sleeping head-to-tail with me. Tissues (a whole box worth) pursed and damp, muffling every surface and pressed between sheets and the lounges stock-pile of extra blankets. Cheap merlot and a pretty plate dusty with half-smoked butts the centerpiece of my bedside table. She could be fun, this wretched mature woman, I’m sure, if she existed. Rather than this dulled, puffy-looking twenty year old in the faux-plaid pajama bottoms, socks and body-swamping sweatshirt. The one who says ‘Oh’ in all the designated places, but can never put a name to face. Too afraid she is to catch the eye in case the catchee thinks she is looking at them. That’s what you do. You look at people. I don’t. And so I come across as this happy-with-her-lot, new-friend-unneeded female. In actuality I’d like to get to know you better, pay for your drink, talk futures or ideas you had prior to sleep.
Why is that? Why the sudden surge of lines or lyrics or things-to-do-for-under-five-dollars when you are on your back, lacquered to duvets, no tool at hand to document these OH MY GOSH FANTASTIC ideas?
I’d leave now, but there is somebody outside my place, in the carpark, probably only just ending their night. Who would scowl at me, still infused with alcohol, might wolf-whistle in a cruel piss-take way, as I squeak along the gravel in my stupid pink and gray rimmed sneakers. They were $200 worth of tack. And the only ones they had in my size that gave my arches and ankles the support I needed after rolling my ankle that time at fifteen during soccer practice. That was something I was good at, not fucking myself up (though I guess some people would quip- ‘Oh, but you’re so good at that too!), but soccer. I played defense and as a teen I had this strange long-stride whilst running. It appeared with the number of steps I was taking that I wasn’t getting far, but I’d clear the ground gazelle-like. I did less damage to the fields than anyone else, I’m sure. People made it clear they found it strangely captivating, how this awkward fumbling girl would bound up and down the green. I was littler then, of course. Still finding so much to hate at 57kg, aching to get to 52, as I remember. Which is common-place. If I could slip back now, what would I say? You’re ok. Your face will start to look normal soon. Your friends are beautiful and will continue to blossom into literally the most stunning females you will ever be closely acquainted with, but they’re not there to attract attention and it isn’t their fault.
Meeting with one of these friends this week coming, she is phenomenal looking. But more-so than that, she has a dirty laugh and a huge heart. I do think this means more, now. I’d even say that her appearance only reflects the mind she holds. We are so changed. But I find it so unworldly touching that she wishes to keep me on close call. Not only because someone so beautiful could do much better in the way of company kept, more because she brings out the best and the realistic in me. Like all the clever quips we had at twelve-thirteen-fourteen-fifteen-sixteen-seventeen have clasped together into a great mass that we roll back and forth in conversation.
I should really go now. I’m not even too sure what I’ve been typing. I do enjoy the sound of the keyboard though.