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When I woke up this morning, I couldn't tell whether I was starving or never wanted to look at food again. It's been that kind of weekend. I settled on a cookie because it doesn't count as nutrition.
My best friend called me late last night, his voice so distorted that I couldn't recognize it. "Camelot," he said. "Panic Attack." I was there in fifteen minutes, trapped between human and owl with a nova locked into my chest.
I won't go into the details; I'm not allowed to. Client privilege. I'm like his right hand man, only I'm a woman and vaguely sinister so I get the jobs that require guile, tact, and diplomacy -- things more broad and skewed than straight and narrow. You could say I'm his guardian angel; you could say that I'm somebody else's who took a personal interest.
I hold him for hours; we're better when we're skin on skin. Lynchpin: his bathroom full of bees and the rain that rained just on my house.
Tonight, the emotion is wrung out of me so I'm one dry nerve ending, like a cockroach. You have to pay the bank sometime and I'm overdrawn, stabbed in the back by my own twisting fall. My arms are empty; my friends have skipped town. Intuition is dizzy on sugar and Will can't even pronounce my name. I would help if I could, only no one's asking and my rainbows are oil sheens and I'm climbing the walls.
Like a cockroach.
Tonight I sang a lullaby that made an old man cry, and he gave me $50 to spend at his record store.
My best friend called me late last night, his voice so distorted that I couldn't recognize it. "Camelot," he said. "Panic Attack." I was there in fifteen minutes, trapped between human and owl with a nova locked into my chest.
I won't go into the details; I'm not allowed to. Client privilege. I'm like his right hand man, only I'm a woman and vaguely sinister so I get the jobs that require guile, tact, and diplomacy -- things more broad and skewed than straight and narrow. You could say I'm his guardian angel; you could say that I'm somebody else's who took a personal interest.
I hold him for hours; we're better when we're skin on skin. Lynchpin: his bathroom full of bees and the rain that rained just on my house.
Tonight, the emotion is wrung out of me so I'm one dry nerve ending, like a cockroach. You have to pay the bank sometime and I'm overdrawn, stabbed in the back by my own twisting fall. My arms are empty; my friends have skipped town. Intuition is dizzy on sugar and Will can't even pronounce my name. I would help if I could, only no one's asking and my rainbows are oil sheens and I'm climbing the walls.
Like a cockroach.
Tonight I sang a lullaby that made an old man cry, and he gave me $50 to spend at his record store.
