Reagan, in his jellybean-eating mode.
An Aussie stormtrooper on a unicycle.
Jack Mehoff, Australian.
I like Tame Impala.
The mullet and the multitude of gold chains.
This evening seems to be never-ending. Thoughts after thoughts trash about in my cranium like woodland creatures foraging in the forest—keeping me awake, staring up at the ceiling, counting the grooves on the rafters. The minutes tick slowly, seemingly backwards, then forward, pausing for a moment to tease me as I kick my covers off, pull them back up, writhing with a fevered intensity. One thirty-seven a.m.: I have reached the point of mild delirium. The sun hasn’t risen yet; the sky is still a dark blue. I contemplate making coffee like some people contemplate grabbing a beer at noon time. It’s lonely kind of misery made more so by the fact that there is a number in my contacts list that I want to call, except that at the moment, I have been exiled from her gated community. The fevered intensity has ratcheted up a notch: in my nocturnal nostalgia, the air suddenly had the faint smell of her essence that clings to my skin like she used to. It feels like jail, a jail that smells like a maraschino cherry at two a.m. I wonder how long it will take to wash that smell off my skin—a minute, or maybe two days?
I don’t know what time it is-mostly because I turned my alarm clock around, but the sun is slowly making its presence felt. My covers are on the floor, on top of a book I intend to read, but haven’t gotten around to doing so—using the time afforded to me by insomnia to lose myself in midnight contemplation rummaging, and a brief pity-party. My alarm has just sounded. I remain still, continuing to stare at the ceiling, hoping that my days with her were not the last best days of my life.
"The only thing I'm high on is love...love for my son and daughters. Yes, a little LSD is all I need."--Marge Simpson
Will Ferrell/Will Domesticated.