I'm starting to go mad.
The trial of keeping my house organized, keeping my dogs brushed, keeping food on the table, keeping laundry off the floor, keeping toilet paper in the bathroom.
I'm starting to go batty.
I want to pound my head on the couch to get this monotony out of my ears.
I want to scream from the roof and watch the moon run.
I want to get thrown out of as many bars as possible.
Windy, rainy, muddy, wet.
Dirty carpets filled with hair, dust, crumbs.
Dirty dishes, on the counters, filling the sinks, the stovetop, the bedroom, the table.
I want to fuck in another country.
I want to try my hand at roulette.
I want to find someone who can keep up with me and not fall down.
I want to burn memories in the cast iron fire pit and never look back.
I look back.
Christopher is acting out scenes of bloodshed.
I stare at him banging the heads of his turtles together.
He gives me a look like I’m annoying him or something.
I always give him shit about war play; asking him if maybe they'd rather have tea together or something like that.
Before I can start questioning him along those lines the doorbell rings.
I always answer the door, holding my body off to the side, while peeking out the hole, just in case.
It’s my friend.
She was one of the first people I called after they took my mother away.
I open the door reaching out my hand knowing she'd come through for me.
Sure enough she drops a bunch of beautiful, light blue pills, with a craved out V in the middle, that looks like a little floating heart.
Now that's my kind of fucking dream.