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Twisting all the bad things into good

Oct 5, 2011

The Nitty Gritty, Part 2: It's Friday, I'm in Hell

“Solitude is indeed dangerous for a working intelligence. We need to have around us people who think and speak. When we are alone for a long time we people the void with phantoms”
Guy de Maupassant, Le Horla et autres contes fantastiques


FRIDAY (NIGHT)

            On any other day, the things going on at LakeView apartment #507 would have seemed a little fucked up. There were the elusive "kids in the hall" as I came to call them. Before that day, I had never seen one bug on the 5th floor in the 10 years I had lived there, now they were taking over my bedroom. I could only figure that it had something to do with letting my room turn into something you may see on an episode of Hoarders:Metrosexual Edition, except that most of my clothes were "so 6 seasons ago".  When your life revolves around the 3-400mg's of Oxycodone that you eat like Pac Man with a bad back from the moment you wake up in the morning  until you nod off watching Netflix at night, new clothes are not high on your priority list. The only reason I would waste pill money on clothes was because I was getting too fat to wear my size 36 pants that were loose when I bought them. They weren't hanging below my ass, exposing my FUBU boxers or anything,  but after eating cheesecake bites and Ben and Jerry's Cheesecake Brownie (I was also addicted to cheesecake) by the pint on a nightly basis, my once comfortable 36's were forcing muffin tops. There wasn't even enough room to tuck my shirt in, but I still couldn't accept the fact that since I had blown up to 232lbs, I needed to make the move to size 40 pants (or at least 38's with those little stretchy expanding things on the waist that I bought at Target). I wanted to cover my ever expanding belly overhang, so I bought a vest to wear to the office. I looked like a bloated Alladin with a Supercut....
   
" Genie, you score me a lifetime supply of percocet and you can keep the other 2 wishes"
                                                           

 ...difference being that the funny little monkey on my back was a constant need for painkillers. This pill popping Alladin looking fat ass also didn't have himself a Princess Jasmine. In fact, he hadn't had a Princess Jasmine in over a year if you know what I mean. Opiates kill your sex drive. Even if the "princess" you're with doesn't mind you plowing away for 40+ minutes while you drip sweat all over her like you were playing basketball in a sauna, it's a lot of work. Sometimes you just throw in the towel and take your salty ass to the shower, but not before having to convince "Jaz" that it has nothing to do with her. I didn't really worry about all that, since I hadn't even kissed a girl in over a year (have I proved my point of what a fucking loser I had become yet?) . In the distant past, when the last ladyfriend I had would come over, all I ever wanted to do was play Rock Band. She was nice enough to play guitar while I released my inner Rob Thomas. She finally left the band because the only other member had a substance abuse problem and couldn't sing for shit.  I had to pull double duty and take up the guitar along with vocals. Luckily, I had purchased a mic stand so I could keep my hands free. Wow, I'm embarrassed even thinking about it. I'm not sure what was worse, trying to hit those high notes during Radiohead's Creep or how fired up I would get during the guitar solo of Hooked on a Feeling. Special thanks to her for hanging out with me as long as she did. It became a lonely road after she stopped coming by.

            Now that there were actually going to be 2 real life females entering my apartment, I should have been excited at the prospect of getting some, but I would have been too embarrassed to even take my shirt off and show them the moobs I had developed since I saw them last. Plus my nerves were shot and I was still shaky enough from the xanax withdraw that a game of Operation was going to be out of the question. Even if I wasn't going to be Marky Marking my CK boxer briefs for them, I should still make some effort to clean up, especially since the tommyknockers had finally given up their equivalent of waterboarding me.

            I tried to clean, but at this point in my life, I had never heard of Adderall, so not very much progress was made. It didn't really matter though, because either the twins had arrived and were knocking on my door or I was about to go another round with "the kids in the hall". But it was the twins, Betsy and Meg. I guess after spending so much time alone, besides greeting them and making some small talk, I had nothing to say. I guess I liked to keep my conversations with imaginary twins short. I went to my room and laid in my bed while they unpacked the generous amount of groceries they had brought. Good thing because I didn't have any food in the fridge. I'm not sure of the last time I had eaten anything, but I would not eat anything until the following Wednesday night. My roommate would tell me 10 days later that he tried to get me to eat something, but all I did was drink Gatorade for almost a week.  At least I had my electrolytes.

            My roommate came into my room, wondering why "these girls" were here. I told him that it was cool and they had brought groceries. He asked where they were sleeping. I said one would probably crash in my room and one on the sofa in the living room. He said,"Well, if she starts snoring, I'm gonna call her out on it." Huh? As he left my room, Betsy reentered. "We're gonna leave", she said. Huh? They haven't even been here long enough to realize that we couldn't watch cable because my DirectTV had been cut off 3 months ago and that we couldn't even watch a DVD since I had pawned my PlayStation 3 to cover the hundred dollars I was short on September's rent.  I said that they had just got there and now their going to drive back to Atlanta? She said something about my roommate making them feel uncomfortable. I poked my head out the door to see her sister packing up the much needed groceries that they had just put away. They invited me to go back to Atlanta with them. I knew I had to get out of this apartment that I had grown to despise over the past year, so I assume that I said yes, because next thing I knew, I was in the back of their SUV on the highway.

            At some point on the drive, I took a xanax that they gave me. I figured that I actually had gotten some much needed sleep, because when I woke up, they were excited to tell me that there had been a change of plans. We were getting ready to pull into the airport....the Kansas City Airport....to jump on a flight to Vegas. I remember feeling groggy, and even though geography was not my best subject, it seemed  a little out of the way to drive from South Florida, right past the Atlanta Airport and I don't know how many other airports along the way to Kansas City. I only had $30 on me, which was my net worth at the time. They said not to worry about it, so I didn't feel it was my place to question why we were departing from Kansas City.


            It would not be until next Thursday that I would realize that in reality, I never even left my bedroom that Friday. I don't know what I was doing, maybe just laying in bed staring at the ceiling. But to this day, just about 2 weeks more than a year later, I can remember everything up to this point as if it really happened, more like a memory than a dream that fades over time.  There would be plenty of things to happen over the days to follow that made less sense than Inception if you only watched the last hour. At the time, they were my reality. These hallucinations were so illogical and absurd that I don't know if I will be able to even put them into words without fictionalizing them, which I refuse to do, to create some kind of connection where there was none. In comparison, everything up to this point was really not that crazy. To say that things were going to get worse by the day would be an understatement. It would not be until later that weekend, after barely getting out of  Vegas alive, that I would step outside of my personal hell of an apartment, taking my delusions to the street to be witnessed by my neighbors. I would later find out from my roommate that this is when "people were starting to talk".
     

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