3.04.2008

my nightly nervous breakdown and a grain of salt.

i'd just gotten done doing the dishes. this silly musical candle my mom put on the birthday cake she made for me last week was sitting next to the sink. i was pretty sure i didn't touch it in the process of rinsing the plates, which is why it creeped me out to hear "happy birthday" playing downstairs after i had finished. the simple melody crept up the stairs and made the darkened rooms down there feel haunted with that same eerie feeling that clowns and other seemingly innocent pastimes give me.

i scrambled down the staircase and tried jiggling the mechanism at the bottom of the candle but the tune wouldn't stop. i pictured my mom calling me into the kitchen that night, the lights dimmed, and how proud of herself she was over the little gimmick that secretly made me miserable for the same reason as the snow globe she got me for christmas when i was a kid after the divorce that played "have yourself a merry little christmas"; we couldn't anymore, just like the cute family birthday party days are long gone, and the family practically is, too. now it's reduced to my favorite home-cooked meal accompanied by a card with a gift certificate to a bookstore since reading is my only real hobby anymore. thank the gods for those convenient little worlds to escape to in the short bit of spare time i have before bed each night, assuming i'm sober enough to make sense of the words. welcome to the terrible twenties, where thirty and the end of your life as you know it feels just around the corner, because it is. a friend asked me last night if i fear getting old. to answer truthfully, i'm afraid that i already am. a real job, real bills, and a laundry list of guilt for what i've done and regret for what i haven't (which they say is worse).

when the faucet couldn't silence the damn thing i dunked it in the dish basin in the hopes that being submersed would douse the flame. no such luck. the song was slower, the tiny gears hindered, but the band played on. i tried it again for ten seconds instead of five, again to no avail; the volume diminished for a couple seconds after the baptism but turned right back up once the water dripped out. i snapped the bottom piece where the music came from off of the wax part of the candle, threw them both into the sink, and started to walk away. halfway up the stairs i turned around and headed back to the kitchen. i wouldn't be able to sleep thinking it was still playing underwater like some sort of wounded soldier, even though i hated it for somehow bringing out such drastic emotions unnecessarily. i mean really, who gets so upset over a trite children's song with its rights currently owned by michael jackson? that was a rhetorical question.

sure enough the little bastard was still playing. i could just barely make out the melody coming from underwater, or maybe that was my mind playing tricks on me again. i retrieved it and heard the volume and speed increase once more. something had to be done about this crippled memory or i'd have one more reason to toss and turn all night. the garbage can didn't seem permanent enough. i walked over to the woodstove, opened the door, and tossed it in. it landed on a bed of bright orange coals so hot that they were almost transparent. the plastic melted and the song slowed down for the final time in a fashion that assured me of its permanence, a thing hard to come by and harder to keep. when the dirge died down i closed the door of the stove and headed back to the stairs. a faint popping sound came from inside the stove. it was finally over. i'd say i sighed, but that'd be lying. i just knew i'd sleep better.

this is the kind of thing that keeps me up at night. it's no wonder i am the way i am and the cycle keeps repeating.

but hey, the rabbit found a new hiding place inside the bottom of my box-spring. bending down in search of her under my bed, lifting the dust ruffler, and seeing her nails poke down through the fabric from her weight just may be reason to justify it for long enough to get through another day of this self-flagellation (look it up). it's a good thing, too; sometimes people just aren't enough. and do i owe michael jackson some sort of royalty payment for this one?

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