(Dr.) Spendlove

I can barely keep my eyes open. Each sentence is forced. I feel like sleeping but am too awake to. I feel like doing something but am too tired to. I tried to write in my journal and smeared ink on my hand. I tried to come into the café to find a place to write and a crazy guy started asking me if I had a rough day at work. “No,” I replied. He was talking way too loudly and obviously making the others uncomfortable. It’s awful being uncomfortable around oneself. I feel like the crazy man in my own café disturbing myself.

My mind is a battlefield and the armies are made entirely of me dropping little me bombs all over my cities and drowning innocent me’s in rivers, imprisoning caught me’s, me’s jumping out of burning buildings, planes of me flying over runways made of hardened me.

And then a me plane drops a nuclear me on myself and I blow up into billions of me. Now billions of me are running around trying to patch up radiated me’s and my bits of limbs are lying around bits of my shrapnel. A mushroom me rises above it all and laughs an impenetrable laugh.

Me’s winning.

Me’s losing.

Me wins.

Me loses.

Me sits in a corner of the house and strums away at the guitar. Me taps away at the piano. Me sings in a closet. Sometimes I get tired of myself. But like the rotten stepmother you can’t get rid of, I can’t get rid of myself. I am my own rotten stepmother who tells me I’m ugly and needs to do my chores. I am the rotten stepmother who tells myself I’m not pretty and I can’t go to the ball. I’m the rotten rotten stepmother who wishes she could get rid of me but keep the husband that she married into the family for.

Maybe if I were forced to go on a date with myself to a ball, I would learn to like me.
“Hello, my name’s Daniel.”
“Hello, Daniel. My name’s Daniel too.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“And you.”
“Shall we dance?”
“I’ve always wanted to, but don’t really know how.”
“Me too.”
“I used to dance uncontrollably wild jigs at weddings when I was younger. Rose between the teeth, sliding on my knees—that sort of thing.”
“How strange, me too.”
“Would you like some punch?”
“Does it have lemon?”
“I think so.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I don’t like lemon either.”
“I’m picky.”
“So am I.”
“It’s nice that we find so much in common.”
“They say opposites attract.”
“They don’t know anything.”
“No they don’t.”
“But then again, who does?”
“Not me.”
“What do you know?”
“Not much.”
“Me neither.”
“Shall we sit and have something to eat?”
“We shall.”
“Fantastic.”
“Steak?”
“Pas moi, c’est tres mal.”
“D’accord.”
“So you can speak French, too?”
“Only sort of. Je parle francais tres mal.”
“Yeah, moi aussi.”
“Chicken fried steak?”
“I’d love it but always regret it. And it doesn’t seem appropriate for a ball.”
“Perhaps salmon.”
“Perhaps salmon.”
“And to drink? A red wine with your seafood?”
“I know red’s good with meats and fish, but I really do prefer white.”
“The similarities between us truly are endless aren’t they?”
“I think they might be.”
“I think dessert should be bigger than the main course.”
“As do I.”
“What’re your innermost desires?”
“What’re YOURS?”
“They’re hard to articulate.”
“So are mine.”
“I’m a writer.”
“Me too. What do you write?”
“I don’t much like this question, but I always answer it. Personal essay, short stories, and poetry mostly. You?”
“Same.”
“I’d also like to teach or do some sort of social work. Something for the greater good. I like music too. I’m a musician. I want to make music for movies and life.”
“You’ve got a lot of lofty aspirations.”
“As do you.”
“Think you’ll attain them?”
“Probably, but maybe not.”
“Would you rather have a beer?”
“Probably.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Waiter, two salmons and two beers, please.”
“I don’t like it when people order for me, I wish you hadn’t.”
“Yes, me neither, but I do like to be in control.”
“As do I. Which is why I don’t like others to order for me.”
“Are you a control freak?”
“No.”
“Do you always take things personally?”
Silence.
“What’s your favorite song?”
“Stupid question.”
“Author?”
“Dumb.”
“Band.”
“You’re very persistent.”
“That’s my curse and my gift.”
“Do you like winning?”
“Yes. Who doesn’t?”
“Do you like losing?”
“No. Who does?”
“I do like the lack of responsibility involved with losing. There’s definitely less of a reputation to defend.”
“You can only go up.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re rather sarcastic.”
“As are you.”
“Yet another surprising similarity.”
“You hardly know me.”
“Apparently that’s not true.”
“You’re good looking but not quite.”
“Uh, thanks, you too.”
“Just being honest. It’s like you’re rather intriguing in appearance but covered in a dab of doofus.”
“I think I’m going to need a few drinks if we’re going to survive the night.”
“Yeah, me too.”

This entry was posted on Wednesday, December 30th, 2009 at 9:33 pm and is filed under meditations, pain (mostly), personal essay. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.