Shakespeare, Watch Your Back Babe

I’m cold. My nose is running. I’m falling. There is no bottom.

I whiz past the blur, which must be the walls of this nasty hole.

I’m falling deeper than the Chilean miners.

Cool. Maybe I’ll warm up as a move closer to the earth’s core.

Fat chance.

The hole isn’t real. It’s all in my crazy head.

I’m sane enough to recognize this. Oh good.

Later in the day, I might be stuck in a vortex. In my head.

Maybe I was. Who can remember? But I try and focus on the positive.

(That’s very funny.)

I just do my “exercises.” The only positive thing I know I can do.

While my back feels like it’s being torn in two.

Strengthen that body, stretch those lungs. Where’s Jack LaLanne when I need him. Doug and I would watch him when we were young after The Modern Farmer. I didn’t pay attention much then.

I can’t cry my brains out. If I did. Maybe there’d be no nasty holes or vortices where I could stuck.

Fran, you sonofabitch, you’re too tough to cry. Aren’t you?

I hate when people refer to themselves in the third person. It’s obnoxious as bloody hell. That’s what it is. Who do I think I am, Dennis Rodman or something?

Afraid of losing control? The problem of my whole fucking life.

This new one and for sure the old one.

It’s a small world after all.

Can’t come up with completely new neuroses? Have to reuse an old one? Evergreen or no, isn’t that a little lazy, not that I’m being critical or anything.

Isn’t it cute, this shit follows me like that piece of toilet paper. This kind is unable to removed from my shoe.

I’m cold. My nose is running. I’m falling. There is no bottom.