Tylenol / August 03 2003
Cheesy pop music in the background, lyrics I’ve heard ten times over, echoing and permeating my adolescence. It’s a joke. The backdrop to my life is a fucking joke, a commercialist melodrama that’s fixed on my doorstep, with neighbours mauling at every drop of teen-pop spunk that billows out of my stained, Victorian windows.
Fuck. I’m not making much sense.
Sometimes during a conversation, I’ll say something that, in my mind, is as honest and as simple and as true as I want it to be, yet the second it leaves my lips, I'll tag it to something I’ve read, seen or heard. I'll tag it and immediately feel that I'm no longer being original. I'm no longer being honest to the person I am talking to.
Trite. Our conversations become trite. I know what you'll say, and you know what I'll say. But we'll keep on talking because it just feels like the right thing to do. The funniest part of all is that this is like a chess game. And we're both very good players. We're so good that we already know how we'll play each other, action for action, match for match, for the next week, month, year and lifetime. It's beautiful and shocking, but since we're such silly creatures, we'll go at it over and over hoping that somehow, someway, something will change. There will be something unexpected, some rift in time or dimensional trauma that'll cause us to say a word, two or three that'll challenge our understanding of ourselves.
I'm probably still not making sense.
She gave me Tylenol, and I smiled. That's when I knew.
Yet rain still fell.
