My alarm was set. I know my alarm was set. It’s always set; I have no reason to suspect that my alarm did not go off at 6:30 am, this being a Wednesday. I’m looking at my phone right now to confirm. I’ve looked at it four times since I woke naturally at 8:10 am. It’s set. It was set. It might also be worth knowing that while typing the second sentence of this paragraph, I had to first type “Monday,” and then backspace and type “Tuesday,” before I could remember what the name of the third day of the week was.
None of this is the end of the world, today. Today, my classes were canceled so my students would have time to get to the library (I know, they won’t, but this way I can fairly expect them to have had time.). So today, I can cruise into my office around eleven with no problem. Thursday, it won’t be a problem, because I don’t teach on Thursdays. But Friday, when my first class starts at 9 am, this could be a problem.
The aphasia, that’s maybe more of a problem. For a person who makes her living using words, it really fucking sucks when they just bug out on you. I used the phrase “bug out” here, by the way, because it was hard to remember the word “disappear.” Then I decided I liked it better that way and kept it.
And now I’m wondering if my decision to list every day of the week in this post is a manifestation (wasn’t sure I’d remember that word, but there it was in my brain. Go brain.) of my OCD, writ large by these pills. I dunno. Not sure it matters, either.
Last night’s dreams were crazy, but they started fading almost immediately when I woke up, and now I’m left with a vague memory of being on my way somewhere (home?) from somewhere else (work? I’m just guessing here) and having to pass through a mostly abandoned ruined mansion to get there. I say “mostly” because there were other people on their way to and from wherever they were going/had been. One of those people, a pleasant-faced young woman with curly brown hair that I wanted to, but didn’t, pull gently between thumb and forefinger to watch it go sproing as it fell back into place, warned me not to go down the hallway that was painted a cheerful pink. “She’s in there, and you don’t want to run into her,” were this pretty mental construct’s parting words to me, delivered in a casual, “see ya ’round” tone of voice.
I tried to avoid the pink hallway. I really did. But every turn I took led me to walls painted this awful, happy, terrifying, cheery pink. So eventually I said fuck it, I gotta get home, and went with it.
I ended up in a room with pink walls and no doors. Yes, no doors. I have no idea how I got in there. There were big flowers painted on the walls, in a darker pink than the walls. They were those scrawly, looping flowers little girls draw. I heard a woman laughing. The laughing got closer. The woman with the curly hair swooped into the room through a dirty dark pink door (yes, a door) and beelined my way, giggling. “I warned yoooooooouuuuuuuu…” she said, through her laughter.
I woke up this morning and smoked a cigarette. It made me cough and tasted like death. I put it out half smoked.
witnesstofoolishness 