The mediocrity that is me
Blurring the edges of reality.
"Alcohol solves all problems..."
was tossed offandedly into the rind of teenage conversation
one day. I retched and silently vomited the words onto the
cold linoleum floor of my mind's eye. All others buzz with
their agreement to the insiduous phrase. I have broke
contact with the hive. They recall how parties, sex, and
hard liquor (softened, of course, with kool-aid) have
solved summer tragedies of cruel parents, crushes gone
wrong, and broken nails. I smile, laugh, and shatter into a
million pixie-dust pieces. I sweep myself off the floor and
into the pan, sharing my coveted space with dust bunnies
and food crumbs rejected even by the ants. I bid farewell
to my speck-sized companions and begin to reattatch myself
with a bottle of Elmer's All-Purpose Glue. I dry. The glue
hardens. I return to the ring once again. All the while,
they have beat to death tales of drunken hilarity, where
idiots crash into glass doors. The gales of laughter only
increase slightly as I leave.
The process of regluing begins.
I head to the cabinet, pull out a bottle, and raise the
bittersweet liquid to my lips.
O, sweet, firey burning.
The warmth of the sun is upon me.
Resting on soft pincushions.
Comforting darkness holds me close.
Alcohol solves all problems.