Everything goes all crazy.

“Do you know why I wear my collar like this?”

I didn’t.

The man sitting in front of me on the trolley proceeded to straighten his jacket collar, which stood up, Fonzi-esque. Due to the style of jacket, and the style of man, it looked extra silly.

“Because there’re these men, see, they follow you around and they kind of come up behind you and—“ he made a slicing gesture at the back of his head “—they cut into you, almost right to the bone, you know?”

Turning around, leaning on the back of his seat, he almost looked straight into my eyes before his crazy glance fleeted away.

“Then they kind of sprinkle something over it, like a dust or something,” he said, while making a sprinkle motion with one hand, and rubbing at the back of his head with the other. “When they’re done, they’ve put a device in you.”

I’m sure I couldn’t help looking a little surprised.

“With the device implanted they can listen to you, and they can talk to you as well. And when they talk, it’s like – you know what TV static is? It looks like that in your head. Everything goes all crazy. And the headaches—”

At this, the man closed his eyes tightly, wincing. He looked to be in pain.

I was speechless.

The man turned around fully, looking up at me, kind of staring over my shoulder and said, “Forty years I’ve been dealing with this. I don’t think I can take it anymore.”

Without saying another word, he stood up and exited the trolley.

***

Note: I'm becoming really bored with crazy people.

Ruin

"I like your style," I overheard one hair dye junkie say to another.

It was at that moment that I realised vanity is a sucker's game, a game for two, and it makes you sink so low. Being next in line, I approached the customer service girl.

"This is gonna hurt like hell," I said.

She stared at me in mute confusion.

"I have to return this sweater," I explained, placing a blue sweater on the counter between us.

A shared laugh, an unseen spark.

Little did she know, within a week we'd be sharing a bed, and within two, our break-up would not be pleasant.

Some people have said that I have a way with words; I just think that I don't make any sense and that's why girls dig me.

Volti Subito.

We had a keen interest in bank robbery, not just on our own planet, in our own galaxy, but others as well.

__________

All my memories of you are counted
Sorted and stashed away
In that old shoe box

Beneath my bed.

__________

She: Do you have to find the prize in everything?
He: What else is there?

__________

This all starts with one letter.

__________

Confined to a southern jail cell for a few lonely weeks on obscure, trumped-up charges, I decided to see the bright side of things - at last, a chance to think.

__________

You: Will I see you again?
Me: Probably not.

__________

Repeat.

Uneven legs.

1. Which of the following do you think is most likely to exist?

Bigfoot
Ghosts
UFOs
God
Luck

2. Have you ever had a religious vision?

I'm not sure how I answered either of these questions, as I was sleeping at the time and my post-sleep memory isn't that great, but apparently I answered them wrong. I know there were more questions before these, but I didn't remember them upon waking. After answering the last question, I was bounced from this dusty old mansion, where the test was being given, to this kind of classroom. I was only there for a split second before being forced awake, but I remember the classroom was kind of like my high school classroom where nothing was really ever new or in good shape; ancient, chalk-stained blackboards, peeling orange- and yellow-tiled floor, crummy desks with uneven legs. Wish I could have stayed there a little longer and looked around - might have found that old graphing calculator I lost.

World's Best Sleeper.

Reaching up to take the cone from you, I fumble as I accidentally grasp your hand instead. Trying not to acknowledge my awkwardness, you smile. I know I'm dreaming because there's no way a girl like you would ever smile at me like that. Now I'm in my bedroom alone - my childhood bedroom - and I'm inspecting the shelf where my tiny collection of trophies is kept - some boxing trophies and one for Student of the Week. I'm reminded again that I'm dreaming because there's no way I'd ever get to be Student of the Week. I find a spot on the shelf, alongside this sad collection, that is empty. Like there should be something else there. I wake up at this point and, after some quick math, I figure out that I've slept a whole eight hours. Non-stop! And I'm thinking I deserve a trophy. A trophy to fill that gap on the dream-shelf.

Postcards From There

You send me postcards from there.
More pictures than postcards, really.
Pictures you take yourself-
Captured moments
With writing on the back.

You tell me 'hi',
That you miss me,
That you're having the time of your life.

My tired eyes wander
Through the scenes
Seeking some semblance of familiarity.

Everything is out of place.

That half-empty bottle of whiskey
On the bedside table
Isn't your brand.

That's not the balcony
On which we first
Kissed.

That's not the skyline
That acted as the backdrop
For our epic romance.

You send me postcards from there.
More pictures than postcards, really.
You're having the time of you're life.

I'm right here.

Mouth to mouth.

Jonathan Richman, sans his Modern Lovers, is sitting in my childhood living room giving my adult self a private performance of a few of his songs. Then he breaks into 'Girlfriend' to close the show:

"If I were to walk through the Museum of fine arts in Boston..."

At this point, my dad's dog - a silly little chihuahua with some aggression issues - starts having a heart attack. It doesn't take long before he's on his back with his legs straight up in the air.

"Well first I'd go to the room where they keep the Cezanne..."

In a panic, I find myself on the floor pumping his tiny chest, giving him CPR.

"But if I had by my side a girlfriend..."

I check again for breathing and a pulse, but he's still unresponsive. Ignoring the dog breath, I proceed to give him mouth to mouth.

"then I could look through the paintings..."

This does the trick, and soon enough the little mutt is coughing and struggling to his little stick-legs. We then just sit and enjoy the rest of the show.

"I could look right through them."

I've had two days in a row with eight-hour sleeps!

Yay!

..underlit and red...

I'm walking down this crazy hall, all underlit and red like some seventies porno movie, and I'm walking past all of these doors, colourful doors - red, blue, yellow, green; doors behind which I know are hookers. [inaudible] carpet everywhere - red shag - on the ceiling even - but the walls between the doors are paneled with thick dark wood. I cough and most of the sound is instantly absorbed. Coming to a brown door, almost camouflaged with the wall, I swing it open, knowing that it leads somewhere else. Somewhere away from here. For some reason or another I'm not at all alarmed when I find Carl Jung sitting on a bed and cutting up a big line of posh atop the bedside table. He just turns to me, peering through his thick, hazy, spectacles. "You've got a lot of work to do," he says, pointing a rolled-up bill at me. I demand to know just what the hell he's on about, but he just sits there shaking his head and watching me with an unreadable expression. I slam the door and when I turn out into the hall I find myself in darkness - [and I awake in somewhat of a terror, whereupon I record this].