Suddenly last summer I began writing my journal in third person.
“She had 84 grams of oatmeal, 16 ounces of coffee (black), one hard-boiled egg for breakfast. She brushed her hair 99 times before bed. She read one chapter of a book she didn’t have the talent to write. She dreamt of taking one in the temple. She woke up disappointed she was still breathing.”
This might be the only thing I picked up from my one day stint in Narcotics Anonymous. My version of Step 4. “Taking a fearless inventory of yourself.”
If I’d hung around long enough to share my journal, the counselor in charge of this local chapter, with a pulsing neck vein where his ex-wife’s name used to live, would shake his head (and clipboard) at me.
“No! No! What this needs is more introspection, less observation! WHY did she dream of taking one in the temple!”
I don’t know, man. Doesn’t everyone?
“She carried on with unloading the dishwasher even after he hurled a copy of Infinite Jest at their sparkling new 72 inch tv. She blinked twice but refused to cry. Not even after he called her an agent of perpetual misery and a whore. (This part especially made no sense. As she understood them, most whores seemed rather carefree.)
She came back from Florida with a violent case of food poisoning. She begged him to bring home some toast- just regular Wonder Bread and butter. Doesn’t have to be the fancy sourdough kind, she said.
She showed remarkable restraint - didn’t even raise her little voice!- when he ignored her calls. He walked right on past the supermarket towards the neon-lit bar sign instead.
Later that night she considered quietly slitting his throat.
She went to sleep hungry instead.
Suddenly last summer I stopped asking him to take out the trash. Suddenly last summer I started eating dinner alone. Suddenly last summer I got used to making myself cum. Suddenly last summer I realized he was never replacing that broken tv. Suddenly last summer I grew tired of staring at the empty space on our living room wall. Suddenly last summer I was no longer on the right side of our bed. Suddenly last summer he wondered if I would end up hurt him, too.
I don’t know, man. Doesn’t everyone?
with a pulsing neck vein where his ex-wife’s name used to live. oooof. i don't believe there is a novel you don't have the talent to write
gosh I loved this lil story and that ending!