Twisty

I’m in a perpetual state of panic. Here’s what happens. Every morning I wake up and take stock. Okay, I don’t think I’m dead. I count the bed shakes to measure my pulse. Find my appendages numb and tingly from a long night of being prone, it must be MS or ALS. I’m now imagining a growing tumor in my pituitary gland. I look over at Her, She rolls away and I unscrew the Klonopin bottle just as deftly as I unscrewed her last night.

On this morning 2.0 MG is gonna do just fine. I sit up and immediately fall back down. Vertigo. Again. Wonderful. Better make it 2.5 MGs. I know it sounds weird but panicking doesn’t even make me panic anymore and this is making me concerned. Is there a finite amount of adrenaline the body can produce (when I was 13, I used to hope there wasn’t a finite amount of sperm swimming around the nut pond)? If so, I must have hit the wall. I’m already an hour late for work but I’m not going anywhere until my head stops spinning. I check the droid. Fuck, eight missed calls, 65 emails (60 spam), four text messages. I press on my Twitter icon but put the phone down because I can only read it when it’s exactly 12.5 inches away from my face and I can’t manage to get the distance right. I turn on the TV and can hear the cast from The View kvetching about weight loss struggles. I keep my left eye shut to focus, catch my reflection in the mirror and thank god I never got that tattoo on my shoulder (what would have started out as a ripped hockey player taking a slap shot by now would be a hairy fat fuck spilling out all over me).

Instinctively I reach down to adjust myself and I can’t feel my johnson. I pull up the sheets, look in my Hanes and I see what appears to be a dead fish-well, minnow. Klonopin side effect? I hope. I pull the head and tug it out but it slowly goes back into its repose like a 90 year old spent Stretch Armstrong.

I look back at Her to see Her eyes darting beneath their lids and feel happy and resentful. I reach for Her right tittie and squeeze gently. Look down, nothing. Great, now I’m sure I have dick cancer. Against my better judgment I get to my feet and into the bathroom. I empty my bladder but don’t feel a thing. My stream is weak and sporadic but as a benefit, it’s going in 8 directions at once. I get in the shower and immediately shart. At least I’m in the right place. The pipes squeeze and spring, finally relenting a brown unsteady offering of cold sharp water. No shampoo, no conditioner just a razor thin slither of Irish Spring.

I get it wet and sniff it imagining I’m a stocky Irishman on a prairie with my choice of sheep. The soap slips loose and after spending 3 minutes trying to grab it, I give up only to see shooting stars as I lift my head too fast. I towel off thinking I need a shower and see Her sitting up pulling her ear plugs out. She points to my thighs and appears to be mutely screaming. This confuses me so I look down to notice a yellow stream running down my leg. I guess I’m peeing again. That’s when I realize my hearing is gone. I get dressed (knock off Dockers, and unlogo’d golf shirt), grab a banana and get in the hybrid. I’m looking for a very large cliff to plunge from and this goddamn city doesn’t offer anything but gentle rolling hills. I step on the gas and head right into an oncoming garbage truck. Just before my head hits the windshield I wake up with a start. Jen looks over at me sympathetically and I tell her I dreamed I was John Banks again.