November 25, 2016.
Moments. Where the hell am I? Too many thoughts and not enough mountains. The days have been rolling like one long joint filled with ashes instead of medicine. I’m moving slower and slower, without trying. Expletives have become exponential. When I was 9 years old I killed time in the bathroom. Next to the toilet was a snot smeared tin cabinet jam packed and overflowing with Playboy magazines. Outside, in the adjacent kitchen, the men sat drinking Budweiser while I avoided the eventual “walk” through the maze of their threats and wandering hands. After I grew bored with the magazines I turned to the oversized sex joke book hanging from the tall tin cabinet painted with dried buggers, mostly mine. Later, my mother would slap me for wiping my snot over the cabinets that held the girly magazines. I would imagine escaping behind the bathtub, down the heat vent, and popping up elsewhere, anywhere but here. I thought . . . those are the adults out there. How can this be? I’d peer through the keyhole, scanning the location for the most perverse male and plan my escape route accordingly. I’m still doing that, but with voice, fierceness, and footing. I’m no doormat.