uncomfortable and wet

c}{imps 8 my ears

Having hot flashes every day for a year, they were panic attacks, they were a manifestation of a superpower, they were an excuse for how I was coming to meet the world as a newly adulthood knighted man. I longed to disintegrate. Seeking out intellectual comprehension was like trying to win at a game where the prize was being able to deny that you had shit your pants and having to walk around for eternity with a load in your underwear but having everyone go along with you. No, you did not shit your pants. No, we don’t smell anything. Then, why do I feel so uncomfortable and wet?

As an adult, I managed to feel my way into unemployment, while doing day-labor on clueless builds, where heartless people who were tricked into thinking they owned a part of the Earth would attempt to reify their sanctuary. The heart is an organ of sight, you see? Our persistent role as carpenters was not so much to manipulate the structures of wood, as it was to present the “owners” with a fastidious realm of their own making, but to present it as clean was a lie. How many times have tradesmen and laborers left fossilized turds behind walls and under foundations? These were not so much the sewage of builders as the manifestation of the true lie of American home ownership.

When I moved out of my father’s house for the last time I moved in to my mother’s place. She didn’t live there and I wouldn’t stay there long. I had learned to manage my panic attacks by self-medicating and existing mostly inside my own head and in what shared delusions we could conjure among friends.