– Ben Johnston

I’m waking up. I’m waking up and trying to remember the last time I cared what day it was. I’m trying to remember why I even bother to get out of bed anymore. Remember the last time that basic human communication didn’t sound like white noise to me. I can’t remember. I get out of bed. I get out of bed and I’m thinking about what I’m going to eat today. What I’m going to do today. I can’t think of anything. Peeing, I glance at the shower wondering if this day is privileged enough to see me bathe. I decide that this day is no more deserving then the last, slip on the same clothes from last night, throw a jacket on and proceed outside. It’s colder today, and the angels are spitting in thin sheets that coat the ground and parking lot, making the grass look slick and separated. Thunder echoes out of some unseen cloud, and I swear the rain is following me on my walk. I stop in a convenience store and buy a pack of cigarettes in change. I’m saving the paper currency for a bag of painkillers, because today I’m really hurting. Watching couples walk down the street holding hands and laughing at the sweetness of life, the unsaid joy of having a constant companion. One of the couples, the girl bumps into me as I squeeze past her and a sign post, and I’m muttering under my breath, “ugly slut.” I’m thinking about all the ways I could ruin her day when I almost overshoot my “friend’s” stoop; I spin on one heel and proceed up the rain-kissed stairs. I hit the intercom for his room and let a gap of silence pass between me and the machine before I hear a calculated buzz emit and hear the lock on the main door snap open. I’m in my “friend’s” apartment and before I know it I’m shoving pills in my mouth. The next ten minutes are fast forward. I don’t know what kind of pills spelunked their way down my esophagus, but they definitely work. The next thing I know I’m down the street, fingering a Ziploc bag of whites, blues, yellows, different shapes, different shades of numb. I’m walking back, hoping some random stranger will stop me, tell me my name, and ask me what happened to me, maybe giving me some idea, because like most people who are asleep when they’re awake, I have none. I’m standing in my kitchen and swallowing a whole prism of colors, and I’m getting that comfortably apathetic feeling. Toward strangers. Toward loved ones. Toward myself. I can’t say it’s not the only thing I look forward to these days. I lay around and watch infomercials about knife sets, rotisserie cookers, dog clothes, portable grills, phone sex hotlines, facial cleanser, more knife sets, plastic that grows into grass, a CD collection of music no one bothers to listen to anymore, towels that can clean any spill, blenders that can fit in a suitcase and make salsa out of leftovers, coin collections, cleaning products that can burn a hole in the ozone, blankets with sleeves in them, phones shaped like footballs, another knife set, an automatic hammer, counterproductive waste. Here is your existence, as seen on TV. I eat more pills. I watch more infomercials. I dream about not being alone. I dream about being alone. I dream about living. I dream about being more than a ghost. I lay in bed. I stare at my ceiling, and try to think of the last time I felt like my soul wasn’t full of lead. The last time someone called me. The last time someone asked me how my day was. The last time I did something. Anything. Nothing rings a bell.