Inside The Eye.

As a bipolar person, I am prone to what popular science has coined, “episodes.” The term makes it sound crazier than it is, conjuring images of mental lapses where people end up in hospitals for days, sucking Lithium through a straw. 

“Cindy just got out of that rehab facility after her… you know… [whispers] episode.” 

In a literal sense, the word can refer to short television slots. Which, as someone who has “episodes”, I can vouch this image is more correct than anything else. My brain will capture and force me to become an audience member of my own life. I’ve grown to understand them (mostly, anyway), and ride them out with a type of complacency. Not much fighting, just acceptance of, “oh, your chemicals are all brewed. It’ll cycle out soon.” 

My brain hates this. He used to get villainous satisfaction from dragging me away, kicking; it was a way to validate his power. Not anymore, though. It’s routine when he comes knocking now.  

“Alright, cranium. Let’s do this. You bringing popcorn?” 

“You know, Carly. You’ve really taken the fun out of this.” 

“Aw. So sorry to spoil your fun. This better be a good one. I was in the middle of making some progress. If I’m going to the sidelines now, I better at least be entertained. Seriously… you have popcorn?” 

We settle on the outer rim of my pupil during the events, watch my world unfold in a grey veil where characters are 2-D and every idea is flat. Sometimes I’m a comedy, and I chuckle from how pathetic I look strewn on a couch like some discarded Cheeto. I can be a sad indie flick, where I wander the streets, choking on un-cried tears, or an uplifting survival story, where I fight past my demons and turn around quick. Most of the time, though, I’m a spoiled ending - aka, frustrating.  

“You know this isn’t me, right?” I ask my cranium, stuffing about 500 popcorn kernels in my mouth. We’re perched in the eye, watching me sob on the edge of my bed for no particular reason. 

“Well, if it happens sometimes, it kind of is you. Not fully you, but kind of you,” he says. 

We had become friends, after he accepted his gradual transition from kidnapper. We’d bond over discussions of rationality, even though I wasn’t functioning that way. The night I realized he wasn’t against me was a busy evening in the bar I work. We were gazing, unamused, at a manic breakdown my misplaced cells were causing. Even as I sat removed, I could feel it. The claustrophobia of empty glasses; the fifty different tasks to perform; the quips of rude people. It was chaotic shrapnel through my spine; every cell in my body ramming my skull; angry bees swarming my veins. It seemed my body could seizure at any moment, and pop my head straight off my neck. 

“Ask to take three minutes in the back,” I plead with my brain. “The lounge is under control enough for that right now. Please. I can feel the anxiety stretching out my fucking skin. I’m elastic about to snap.” 

He rocks, back and forth. “I can’t. I want to for you, but I can’t. You have too much pride.” 

“Fuck my pride! My thoughts are coming so fast, I’m not even sure they are thoughts. And it’s starting to make me irritable. You have to remove me from this situation for a minute. Please…” I touch his sticky, pink surface; a simple gesture I had never done before to show how much I needed him. My coworker began to ask me a question. My voice was venom before he even finished, and I growled “what?!” in his direction. I cringed from the outskirts. 

“Look. I’m snapping at the people I care about.” 

“Carly. I promise, I’m trying. Every time I get close, there’s that damn wall of pride. It doesn’t help that you’re ashamed, either.” 

“I feel helpless,” I whisper. “But I guess the shame, the pride… that’s all my doing…”  

“Yes, it is. Don’t worry. The mania should pass soon.” 

Pass it did, but the effort from containing myself left me a withered balloon. I wasn’t a complete success at being incognito, either. “Carly, you’re sad. Why are you sad?” someone had asked earlier, as I watched espresso brew in a slated state. 

“I’m not,” is what I said out loud, but what I spoke from my eyeball was much different. “Who, me? I’m fine. My insides are just prying at every surface I have, and trying to keep control is strangling the fuck out of me.” My hand had shaken as I grabbed the delicate cup. When I gave it to the person who ordered it, I shot a smile and syrupy “enjoy!”, wondering if they could tell I was about to jack hammer through the floor. 

“You’re okay. You’re doing better than you think you are,” my cranium comforted. 

When the brain shuts you out, takes control with a force you have to wrangle, the feeling is both frightening and awe-inspiring. I have to admire the power of it. The brain can live seven minutes after our hearts stop beating, so the fact it can override my control is nothing to be shocked over, only dismayed. And nervous. What will it do, next time? As far as episodes go, what happened that night is one of the worst manic states I’ve experienced. The frenetic energy coupled with energy expended to keep control exhausted me into two days of recovery. I dragged my skeleton around the first, defeated, and the second was questionable because I couldn’t tell if my mood was too happy. 

So, what happens next time? Does my cranium allow me to keep my position, watching and understanding? Or will I become lost within him; lose control; come to myself days later like some escaped hospital patient who realizes they wandered twenty miles of snow without shoes. Therapy and medication says this will not happen to me. My own self awareness believes this will not happen to me. But when the brain doesn’t even need blood to keep making decisions, what do these three things know?  

The Dark Carnival.

Writers… we don’t think like everyone else. My boyfriend softly jokes about how I can turn the most trivial into a metaphor, always. His musing is justified. Everything can be symbolic. 

This may sound like a pretty way to view the world, and sometimes, it is. But it can also turn life to a dark carnival, where student debt becomes failure and cocktail waitressing is just a slow way to die. Things others may not read into become gruesome roadblocks whose detours only lead to more. “This means this” is constant, and nothing is separate. 

It’s a dangerous way to think, especially when your disposition happens to be more dark than light. This is me. A blur of black, wrung with gold. Everything can take such a shining appearance, and in the same hour shatter to pieces. Lights slipping by a drivers side are temporary fixtures in places I’ll never belong; trees lining streets are heartbreakingly beautiful instead of magnificent; and the hum of traffic is the constant noise confusing my brain. 

This trait, of course, is what enables us to do what we do. Without capturing the profound in the mundane, where would the impact of our words be? Or, it just makes us far too analytical, harsh, and maybe just fucked in the head. Over the summer, I lived in a cockroach infested sub-basement apartment, alone, that housed every time I fell short. Shadows on the wall were not caused by light refraction, but were the disappointed demons of my psyche, come to life to mock and parade my failed accomplishments through eight, shelled legs.    

It drove me to the brink. I’d rather never write a sentence again then be where I was. Yet, after it was all over, my immediate thought? “Well, at least I got some material.” 

When the carnival begins, that phrase is the crutch to keep limping with. The shadows are not actually demons, but on paper, they can be. They can be anything I’ve turned them into. Whether or not it’s effective and something anyone wants to read is another thing entirely, but it all needs to start with an idea. Or the insecurity in the mis-fit of a shoe; the personal growth in the rambling of a train; or the memory locked in the feel of velvet. Whatever it is, none of it is separate. 

Prop 8 Pressure

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 Today, Prop 8 is to go to the Supreme Court, in a decision that will either allow humanity to feel good about itself, or set us back from foreword thinking. In a show of solidarity, millions of Facebook users are changing their profile and cover photos to pink and red equality signs, the official sigil of the movement.

Millions of users. Except me.

The more my newsfeed boasts, “So-and-so changed their profile picture!” with a red block to accompany it, the guiltier I feel. Relevant articles are being shared; thoughtful statuses are being typed; people are voicing their support - Facebook has amassed to say: “Hey, this is what the people want!”

Except me.

I’m sitting on the other side of my computer, thinking, “should I change my profile picture just so people don’t think I’m an asshole? Should I at least make a status, or share a picture about it? Fuck, if I don’t, will people think I don’t care?”

This is a paranoia that could only arise now, when our online identity is directly linked to the one actually walking around. We live in the days where the phrase, “oh yeah, I saw that you did that on Facebook!” is an acceptable, normal thing to say (by the way, when Facebook first started, that was creepy. What the hell happened?). People are fed information about our personalities, activities, beliefs, and attitudes, not through us directly, but through our keyboard mouthpieces. Which is fine, because we ourselves dictate how we look on your screen, but it’s also dangerous because there are people who may only know us in that sense.

And they’re watching. 

The pressure can be astounding. Especially on days like this, where movements are taking place and national issues are on the table. I support gay rights. I want people in love to be able to celebrate that love, but I also don’t want to change my profile picture just to change it back in one day. It’s not like replacing my face with an equal sign is going to make anyone vote differently, anyway.

That’s how I feel, yet, I’m still worrying after the bandwagon that’s passing by. I’ve even thought up a few statuses:

“Gay marriage. It should be allowed to rock. Let it.”

“I heart men who hold men, and women who hold women.”

“Look, people, I’m not changing my profile photo, but just so we’re clear - I DO support gay marriage, okay?”

I’ve also been tempted to go the opposite route, and troll Facebook:  “What’s up with all the equal signs today? Is something going on?”

I can’t bring myself to do any of these things, though. If I were to change my photos, or write some profound comment, or post some article, it would purely come from the pressure I feel, and not from a place of passion or genuine action. And faking sincerity on such an important issue would be more shameful than anything else. This is me, staying true to my living, breathing personality. I may feel guilty over whether or not someone I haven’t spoken to in years thinks I’m an asshole, but I’d feel even guiltier if I were to do something simply because of perceived social media pressure.

I even wonder, how many of you are simply bending to this? Hm.

No, the stress of worrying about what all of your online identities think is just going to have to stick. I’m going to sit at my computer, chomp on my fingernails, and watch you all go by in a parade of support with truly wonderful ideas, and heartfelt posts. I may not be streaming along, but, look, people - I’m not changing my profile photo, but just so we’re clear - I DO support gay marriage, okay?

Listening For Nothing

She was lying with her head off the side of the bed, kicking her feet up the wall and smoking a cigarette into the air. Her phone was silent beside her, though this was nothing new. He was always on his own time. 

She watched dust dance down through the dim ceiling light, delicate and opaque. She imagined it settling on her lips, and was wondering how it would make her taste when her phone finally broke the silence. She answered immediately. 

“Where have you been?” Her tone was defeated, not angry. 

“Uhhh, hello to you too…” 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m out drinking.” He said this like she had no right to ask. 

“Okay.. this is where I get frustrated. You tell me you’re going to call and then you don’t and I think we’re gonna go out and you just blow me off and - “ 

“Oh my gaaawd!”  He was always exaggerating his words, drawing out vowels. 

“What?” 

“We were fuckin’ slammed tonight and I wanted to get a drink! What is wr-ONG with that? What is wr-ONG about getting a drink with the people I just worked my ass off with?” 

“Nothing! That’s the thing! Nothing is fucking wrong with that, except when I think me and you are going out and you completely blow me off and I don’t know what the fuck is going on.” 

“Okay…” he said this slowly, like he was trying to sooth an agitated dog, and she could picture the movements he’d use if he were there; he’d throw his hands down, shrug towards the floor, and look at her wide-eyed as if she were about to pounce.  

“You’re being a little crazy.”  

She sighed and kneaded her forehead, knowing he fully believed that statement. 

“No, no I’m not.” 

“Yeah, you kinda are. This is not how I want my girlfriend to be. I want to be able to go out and get a drink without my girlfriend getting pissed off.” 

“I want you to be able to do that too! I’m not that girl! But do you not see the difference here? I’m pissed because you made plans with me and blew them off. I wouldn’t give a fuck if it wasn’t for that.” 

“Seriously, you need to chill the fuck out. I had a busy night and I wanted to get a drink with my kitchen. Do you understand that? Do you understand what it feels like to work down to your bones?” 

This had become the base of all arguments - work. He was always telling her she didn’t understand what it was like and if she did, she wouldn’t try to make him do unfair things like leave the house on his days off. She never knew how to fight this, because his essence made it seem logical.  

“Don’t talk to me like I don’t know what work is. No, I don’t understand what you go through exactly, but I also don’t understand how that makes blowing me off okay!” 

“Okay. Fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t call and I should have. Why don’t you come here and get a drink with me?” 

“Fuck you I don’t want to come there.” 

“Ohhh my gaawdd - “ 

She said nothing. 

“Can we just stop?” he asked. “I love you. You need to know that. You need to just know that. God, I missed you so much today.” 

“You missed me but you can’t even call when you say you will?” 

“I know.. I know… that was shitty and you don’t deserve that.” 

“No,” she asserts. “I don’t.” 

“Can I come over?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He melted to syrup. 

“Please baby? Can I come over and just be with my girlfriend? God I missed you so much. I just want to come and hold you with your soft skin… and your big, beautiful blonde hair… please? I just need to be with my girlfriend.” 

“Fine.” 

They hung up and she loathed herself. She knew she should have said no, that maybe better women would have, but she needed the validation of love too much. It was almost one a.m. and the house was quite, her roommates asleep. She walked down the hallway on the balls of her feet to fix her hair and brighten her cheekbones in the bathroom, even though it didn’t matter. He’d tell her she was beautiful regardless. 

By the time he arrived, she had already downed two glasses of wine. He came in to find her sitting sourly at the kitchen table, and before she could think of a way to confront him, he grabbed the back of her chair and spun her to face him in an overexposed blur. He fell to his knees and wrapped tattooed arms around her waist, burying his head into her lap. 

“God I missed you,” he said. “I missed you so much. I missed you all day.” 

If he had bothered to look up, he wouldn’t of found her smiling, but looking at the wall ahead in crushed confusion. She ran her fingers through his hair and he kissed the inside or her elbow. 

“What are you doing, crazy?” There was no trace of her inward struggle in the question. 

“I missed you. I needed to hold my girlfriend.” They stayed there for a minute, intertwined in an embrace only genuine intimacy would allow. She softened within its grasp. 

“Alright. Get up, crazy.” 

He got up and grabbed her from the chair, and sat down where she had just been so he could bury her into his lap. “You know what song I thought about all day? That Avett Brothers song… god it reminds me of you. It played in my head and I was just thinking of you, all day…” He kissed her forehead and began to sing softly. 

“And if you take of my soul, you can still leave it whole with the pieces of your own you leave behind…” 

He rocked her along with the cadence of his voice and kissed her neck, her hair, her eyes.  Was this real? She didn’t know. She thought things like this only happened in movies. 

“Now if I’m walkin’ through the rain, and I hear you call my name, I would break into a run without a pauseeee…” 

He kissed the tip of her nose. She let go of doubt and decided to just let herself be happy in the moment. Did she not deserve at least one instance of cinematic love? She closed her eyes, and existed only in his melody. 

“Alright, baby,” he finished up. “Let’s go to bed.” 

They went through what had become ritualistic stripping down and climbed into her sheets, settling into independent spots before coming into each other. He stuck his chin on top her head and nestled his face into her hair. 

“God I missed you,” he whispered. She stayed quiet for awhile in the comfortable space they created. 

“You can have a funny way of showing it, sir.” 

“I know. I know I’m not good at communicating.”

“Well why don’t you start by telling me what’s going on? Like if you’re going out, just tell me. I don’t care. I get mad when you say you’re going to call, or come over, and you just disappear and I have no idea what’s going on.” 

“I know… I know… you don’t deserve that… I’m sorry.” His whisper dissolved and she didn’t respond. He rolled onto his shoulder and turned to metal, his eyes boring into her with the intensity of every nerve he possessed. 

“Listen. I need you to understand something. I go to work and I work for thirteen hours straight, and the entire time, I’m thinking about you. I think about you all the time. Do you know what that means? It means I love you. So much. You need to just know that.” 

She wasn’t sure if she did. At times, it seemed like he loved her more than anyone he ever had or would. It seemed too overwrought and dramatic to really exist. Sometimes, she had no idea what to think of this man who was pulling her into a realm of their own. It was a reality of 20 minute mornings where they’d cuddle, talk about the upcoming day, and fuck if there was enough time. They’d reconvene in the night, staying up watching bad TV, making love, and quietly talking their way into shadows of sleep until the cycle restarted. 

“I know you love me. I just… ” she stopped abruptly. 

“Just what?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I hate it when you do that.” 

“It’s hard for me to talk about this shit, okay?” 

“You can’t just stop in the middle of a sentence.” 

She groaned. She abhorred communicating emotion, but had begun forcing herself to because she thought that was the adult thing to do. 

“I… ugh. Fuck.” 

“Oh my gaaaawd! Just tell me!” 

“Just… I don’t understand how you say you love me so much but still do some of the shit you do.” 

He stayed quite for a minute. 

“… I know. I’m turning into my dad. My dad was selfish and greedy and I feel myself doing those things, and I don’t know why.” 

When he stopped, she knew he wasn’t finished. 

“He just wasn’t around,” he continued in a passionate fit. “He was never there and I would see what it would do to my mom and it would make me so angry and instead of doing anything about it, I would do stupid shit and make it worse for her.” 

She turned her head and found him glossy eyed, staring at the wall. She had been too sucked in by the force of his voice to notice he changed the subject. A tear ran down his cheek as she traced the outline of a burn he had given himself when he was sixteen. 

“So don’t be like him. If you’re so afraid of it, only you can change it,” she offered.  

“It should be that simple, huh? Now listen. I’m going to tell you something very important.” He propped himself onto his elbow so he was domineering above her. 

“I see you… and I see my future.” She wasn’t sure what that meant. 

“And it scares the shit out of me. So I’m going to be an asshole to you sometimes, okay? And sometimes I just need you to slap me, and tell me I’m being an asshole. If you do that, we’re going to be okay.” 

Her brow furrowed and she felt a mixture of pity and hopelessness for them both. She knew women didn’t fix broken men, no matter how whole they felt in your arms. She kissed him anyway. 

“I can do that. C’mon, let’s go to bed.” 

The light clicked off and they kissed softly, drifting down and away into thoughtless heads of the night. They fell asleep holding hands, and when she woke they were exactly as she last remembered, fingers locked and her tucked in a place she felt protected. She nudged further into his arms, and relished the time she had to herself within him. He was her safe place. The cave of his chest blacked out everything - her thoughts, fears, insecurities. These things didn’t exist within him, even though he could cause them in the silence of a phone call. 

Depressed and Fat: a cycle of shame.

I have a tendency to do pathetic things. 

Sometimes, I find myself in grocery stores on melancholy nights, buying family-size boxes of macaroni and cheese for only myself, or ordering Chinese take-out at 1 p.m. on a Tuesday. I’ll be in a place where the only “proper” course of action is to buy comfort food and catatonically take in Netflix. Everyone does it.  

Or, okay, maybe not everyone does it. But people like me who have a tendency to eat through misery do. Whenever these occurrences happen, I always wonder - on a scale from one to ten, how pathetic do I look to other people? What are grocery store people thinking, as they watch me pick up various cans of Chef Boyardee, looking like I hate everything about what’s happening? What does the delivery guy think, when I answer the door at almost 2 p.m., still in pajamas and without even a thought of make up near my face? 

I know what I would think. ”Wow. That is one sad, lonely chick.” If I were the delivery guy, I might even wonder after my suicide risk. 

One day, I’ll explain myself to him. I’ll answer the door, disheveled and proud, and look him dead in the eye as I grab my kung-pow chicken. I’ll say, “Look, I don’t normally do this. It’s just been a really rough day, and all I want to do is eat and watch TV in my bed so I don’t have to deal with it anymore.” He’ll be confused and feel very awkward. 

“….Sorry to hear that. I just need a signature, here, for the card information…” 

“Sure, sure. And just so you know, there aren’t any cats in here. And I do have a job. And friends. I actually have a lot of friends. There’s even this guy who loves me. So like, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” 

I can’t make up a line of imaginary dialogue for him here, because I can’t fathom how an actual person would respond to that. 

I’m never entirely comfortable with these rituals, even though I go long periods of time without performing them. They always signify I’ve reached a certain stage of self-loathing where I resign myself to it. I’ve quit the fight, and there are no more, “listen to your favorite song and go for a walk!” options available. I’m simply going to stew. And eat. And hate. And maybe weep over my MSG or cheesy noodles. The whole thing is incredibly unhealthy, both emotionally and physically (considering each hateful bite goes straight to my hateful thigh).

I wish, when teetering on the edge of gluttonous depression, I’d stop myself since I know the process doesn’t help. It makes me feel weak because I can’t overcome my urges; worthless because I can’t do anything else; and shameful because I can’t believe what I’m doing. Yet, I still indulge, in order to “make myself feel better,” all while chewing further into a pit of saturated-fat despair. 

Why is this the case? One would think recognizing such a glaring incongruity would stop the madness. But it doesn’t, in just another example of what depression can really do - override logic. When the brain isn’t cloaked in black, it understands proper courses of action. However, thrown into shadow, it begins to panic. Gears aren’t turning correctly, so it tries to run smoothly again by following whims and first impulses. If Freud were here, he’d say the eating is a manifestation of my id. 

But he’s not. So I’ll just call it what I think it is - pathetic.   

Depression with a View.

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One of the unfortunate side effects of experiencing depression is that you actually understand depression. When you hear of people locking themselves in their room for weeks at a time, or having nervous breakdowns at intersections, or finding an answer in the end of a rope, you think to yourself: yeah, I get it. 

It’s a tad jaded, maybe, but it’s just the way it is. And I suppose somebody needs to get it, right? After all, if there weren’t people like me, support groups wouldn’t exist. 

In a twisted sort of perception, I feel fortunate. I am someone who has gained a type of emotional intelligence, albeit a wretched, cursed one. And with the understanding comes an ability to possibly help someone who finds themselves in a place I once was. I’m not saying I pulled through those moments in the most graceful of manners, or that I’m some type of expert, but I still pulled through. 

And at the end of the day, I guess that’s what matters.

Or, it is what matters. Which will be something I’ll remember the next time I’m smothered by the dark, because I’m not naive enough to say I won’t be. Who knows, I might be the girl you see having a breakdown at an intersection. Look for key signs: Texas license plate, New Jersey hair, and a North Carolina-born tendency to insert the word “y’all” after “fuck.” There will probably be a lot of angry, fist-to-wheel action, too. 

There are other times, though, when I wish it didn’t get it. I wish I was more emotionally simple, so I could hear these things and be bewildered instead of empathetic. Then I wouldn’t have to relive or rethink any of those parts of my personality. I could just feel sad. That’s all. Not contemplative, or so complex I wanted to rip my skin off, just sad, like a majority of people do. In a twisted sort of perception, I think those people are fortunate. 

They don’t understand what it’s like to fantasize about suicide. What a blissful thing this must be. 

But I wonder, which of us fares better when we have to deal with our loved ones falling apart? Does an understanding of the deep make it easier for us to cope? We have no questions of “why” and we don’t try to rationalize. It just is. And we know the person will probably, in the end, be okay. But, does it bring our own flaws too close to the surface? We get to remember - “oh, yeah. I’m poisoned.” For those who don’t know how it feels to self-loathe into an anti-social puddle, they can find relief there. They can feel lucky, and reassured. But, is the issue so far removed that a lack of understanding makes it harder to sympathize? “They’re just being dramatic,” could be a common thought. They might also worry, excessively, overbearingly so, causing anxiety-born stomach aches and smothering tendencies. 

And one of the questions serious depressives hate to answer on a regular basis is, “are you okay?” 

Because on the days where it’s hard to hide, by the sixth time we’re tempted to point a finger in the askers face and go, “no. The fuck I’m not, buddy.” Or maybe that’s just me. Because my personality also has the genetic flaw of being from New Jersey. 

Anyway. I suppose neither of us, the empathetic or sympathetic, really come out anywhere near “the top”. We still have to watch someone we care about struggle inside themselves, and no matter how far or close that feeling may be, it’s universally one thing: hard. 

Panic. Give up. Adapt.

There was something I was about to write. I had it on the tip of my brain and got so, so close to typing….. but then the iPad app I was using closed out, and in a wine-fizzled state I couldn’t remember the damn sentence. After that, I stared at the screen, wishing it could respond to my disappointment. “What are you doing?” I’d ask. “Aren’t we supposed to be a team? I thought you liked the way I swiped your screen…” 

Feeling dumbfounded by technology is not a new feeling. We all have moments of confusion when our phone screen goes black, or our computer makes a noise like an angry animal and not an inanimate object. But usually the device will bounce right back, and harmony is restored. 

But what if it wasn’t? What if technology failed? 

I’m not talking about your individual technology, either. I’m talking global, universal, everyone and everything! Computers - off! Phones - down! Databases - wiped! In a world so entangled in wires we had to get rid of them, what the hell would we do? 

The way I see it, several things. We can - 

1. Panic 

2. Give up 

3. Adapt 

They are all very simple concepts, except that in each, much more complexity exists. 

1. Panicking requires a lot of energy. Everything involved - anxiety attacks; yelling; rioting - require exhausting effort, as well as considerable mental clarity. 

2. Giving up requires a lot of hardship. We’d be sacrificing everything that made life so convenient. Remember file cabinets? Having to alphabetize and organize them? We’d suddenly be back in the age of thinking about physical storage and whether or not “I” goes before “J.” 

3. Adapting requires a lot of thinking. We’d have to reconfigure everything. We’d start from scratch, and build the infrastructure from the ground up. And it would take all the intellect required of getting a P.h. D. in physics from Harvard. 

The worst possible outcome would be the combination of all three. We’d panic, and decimate our cities and livelihoods, which in turn would make our adaptation that much harder. Also, any amount of giving up would make our new advances half-assed, leaving us with devices that only perform one function at a time. What use are those? 

… I had an answer for that. 

Then my iPad app closed out. 

And in my wine-fizzled state, I lost the damn sentence. 

Air Service.

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I walked into the UPS store with package under arm, ready to get in and out. I was being forced there - the U.S. Post Office had rejected me. “Are there any liquids or perishables we should be aware of?” they had asked earlier. 

“Liquids.” 

“What kind?” 

“Beer.” The postal clerk smiled in an apologetic way and gave me a look that said, “sorry you’re so dumb…” 

“Can’t take it. You can’t mail beer.” 

“Really?” (Why I was surprised is a mystery.)  

“Yup. You’re gonna have to take it to UPS or FedEx. They might do it.” 

“Great…” But it wasn’t great. The post office is marketably cheaper, plus they have a much more pleasant color scheme. None the less, the beer needed to be sent so I had to give in, and off I went to the brown and yellow building. 

“Just this?” the UPS guy asked as I slid my package towards him. 

“Yup. That’s it.” 

“Alright, it’ll be 19 dollars to get there by 7 o’clock on Monday, or 59 dollars, and we can guarantee it’s there by the end of the day tomorrow.” 

I was confused by his words because the package was only traveling to a place fifteen minutes away. “It’s only going in the city. It won’t get there tomorrow just because?” I asked. 

“No, m’am. To ensure next day delivery, we have to use air service.” 

“…air service?” 

“Yes.” 

“But it’s IN Austin.” 

“I know.” 

“So why would you use air service?” 

“It guarantees it gets there on time.” That was all he offered.  

“But it’s not going anywhere that needs a plane.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“I just… I don’t understand. How doesn’t that matter? Don’t you need a plane to do air service, and it’s IN Austin. So why is air service even involved? How would it be?” I looked down and saw an Iron Man keychain on his hip. Maybe that was the answer to the riddle. Iron Man was the Austin air service, and would personally deliver my package! Which, if that was the case, UPS could have my 58 dollars (and my heart).  

“If it’s next day, that’s what we have to use.” He wasn’t budging, and gave not even a hint he might explain the situation further. If I was standing on the other side of me, observing my facial expression, I’m sure there would have been a mixture of, “I’m-so-confused,” “What-The-Fuck,” and “You’re-Making-Me-Angry,” there. I spoke slower next time. Maybe I was the one confusing him. 

“So you’re telling me… it will be 59 dollars… to get somewhere fifteen minutes away…by tomorrow?” 

“Yes. Because of the air fee.” 

In the depths of my eyeball somewhere, I felt the throbbing of a vein about to burst. 

“Okay, give me back my box.” I snatch it off of the counter in a huff. “This is fucking absurd.” As I left, the other employee of the store watched me like he was afraid I’d tear down their racks of boxes on my way out. Twenty minutes later, I found myself at the post office again. This time, at a different location. 

“Do you have any liquids or perishables in here?” they asked. 

“Nope, none!”  

5:01 Fredrico.

 

image 

It’s 5:01 a.m. and I can’t seem to fall asleep. I’m up, eating popcorn, and reflecting on the evening/morning I just had. There had been some South American guy who talked to me about his sexuality.

I can’t remember his name. So we’ll stereotypically call him Fredrico.

Fredrico kept telling me how unfulfilled he was. Apparently, when he came to America, all women wanted to do was have sex with him, and he had become cold and callous as he slid through all the tangled limbs. “I used to want a connection with someone, not a temporary moment of happiness,” he crooned. His tone and demeanor made it clear he was being sincere and not any type of ironic, but for some reason I couldn’t sympathize with someone complaining about having too much sex.

Yet, I still found myself nodding along to Fredrico, half listening, wondering about how, what he saw as a problem, I saw as a bit ridiculous.

Through his deep, dark eyes, he saw sleeping with different women every week as an empty endeavor. He didn’t find joy in the sex; he found loneliness in these shallow encounters and never knowing who someone actually was. “I’m a good looking guy, you know? (I knew.) And with my accent and American girls, ah. I mean, I just love sex, so how can I say no?”

I imagined a chorus of socially awkward nerds, crying out in agony as someone spoke so morosely about being a walking panty-dropper. Fredrico stopped his monologue to pull out a baggie of cocaine and offered me some. I waved it away as he snorted a little pile from the edge of a key. He clinched the bridge of his nose, looked down to the floor, and shook his head. I wasn’t sure if it was the stimulants burning his nasal canal or a moment of reflection. He looked up teary-eyed. It didn’t help clarify anything.

“I just, I haven’t even felt love for any of them,” he continued.

“Fredrico, darling, could this be the cocaine talking?” I wanted to ask. I wanted that to be the case, because I was starting to feel bad for him. I hadn’t had sex in months, so every bone in my orgasm-less body wanted to hate him. But who was I to belittle his “problems”? My manner didn’t match his, but that made no difference. His reality and my reality are completely separate, because we all conceive reality on our own. Besides, the reason I hadn’t had sex in so long was exactly what he was complaining about; I’m one of those prudes who likes to have some semblance of a connection first.

“That’s why I don’t have random sex,” I opened up a little. He looked at me with his dilated-pupils, extended his toned arm, and set an olive-skinned hand on my shoulder. Despite myself, a small wave of excitement ran through me.

“That is a shame, because you are very beautiful.”

“Fredrico, darling could this be the cocaine talking? Not doing that is exactly what you’re talking to me about.”

“Yes, but still, we are young.” He had told me earlier he was twenty-nine. With his hand still on my shoulder and a smoldering look in his eye, the small amount of sympathy I had harbored minutes ago started to whither. His reality was, after all, something he had control over. If he felt so bad about it, he shouldn’t be hitting on me in the middle of his identity crisis.

His hand left my shoulder so he could do a little more coke, and my fractional sympathy transformed to pity as I thanked myself for having a reality so far from his.

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