Three wheeled sunglasses (Part3)

We talk with Vanessa. I promise to pay our beers, she says that she is a grown ass woman, and pays her own beers. I apologize being patronizing bastard. Vanessa is a grown ass woman, who lets me buy beer to her. “Now you have to have sex whit me” I say. Its joke, I don’t want to have sex with Vanessa. A man asks us is it possible to have so much fun on Thursday. I don’t know what day it is. We talk about future, and past. She talks about Russia, I talk about Tom.

I want to buy new sunglasses, Vanessa says that buy round ones, and I buy them. Mirror surfaced, so I can stare at people without them noticing. Watch out for the secret hand signals, raised eyebrows. I call Sonja, she is in our regular place with Mirka. I’m secretly annoyed, my acquaintances get together without me.

Mirka says something about my earlier mental meltdown. I say fuck you. Every five minutes I ask is she fucking with me. Trying to make me flip out on purpose. Couple of times I ask from Sonja, does she notice how Mirka is trying on purpose to make me flip. Sonja says that Mirka is not trying to make me lose my mind. They have obviously agreed beforehand that Sonja will say so. I apologize from Mirka, and ask if could talk about something else rather than what has happened in the past four days.

We drink. It’s pouring rain. I say that I have a bottle of liquor at my flat. We're going to my apartment. Sonja sits on rear basket of my tricycle. Uphill, Sonja runs the last half a kilometers. Before I let them in I warn the girls, my apartment is a little abnormal.

We drink my booze, Mirka decide to go home. We continue our journey to the Sonja's parent’s summer residence. There should be two bottles of imported wine and cognac. Steep downhill, deep puddle, Sonja scream and laughs, she is soaking wet. We laugh in the rain. Sonja says that she hasn’t had this much fun in a long time. I have had, but I’m glad for her.

We talk about men, about fucking, about getting kids. I say that I was worried about her a little while ago. She promises not to get pregnant. Her sex life is boring, mine is not. The clock is six in the morning. The customers of nearby gas station stare us. I have my sunglasses on and Sonja is drunk as a skunk. I tell Sonja that I once had crush on her. She says that she also had crush on me. I was so quiet and mystical. I don’t believe her.

Sonja slips into my T-shirt. I promise that I don’t penetrate her when she sleeps. Sonja seems to be really concerned about the matter. I fall asleep next to her. I have no intentions to penetrate Sonja.

The secret-murder-society of leftist theater/art/hippies (Part2)

It's five o'clock in the morning. I just got out of the shower. I wait in front of the front door. I step into the lobby. I paint shitty painting, hide it, and talk with cleaning lady.

I smoke too much. Its eight o'clock. I still haven’t had any sleep. I call Sonja and say that she has to come today, otherwise I forget to eat.

It's two o'clock. I'm so tired I don’t know how to talk anymore. In reality I just don’t want to say anything that might indicate to the secret-society of leftist theater/art/hippies that I have noticed their existence. I’m quite quiet. If someone asks where the bathroom is, I yawn and walk away. As quiet as possible. That SSLT/A/H doesn’t notice me.

I call the doctor, say that I need my prescription renewed immediately. I decide to escape into my apartment, I tell everyone that I'm too tired to anything, and that I have to go to bed. At home I lay eyes wide open talking to Sonja who did not show up, although she almost promised.

Sonja says that call again to the doctor. I say that I’m scared at home. I say that I’m thinking about wrapping myself in blanket and running in to the nearby woods. Sonja says that call again to the doctor. “Can I trust you” I ask her. “Yes, you can trust me.” She lies. “Is there conspiracy against me being plotted?” “No, The SSLT/A/H is not real, nobody is plotting against you” She sights. Sonja says that call again to the doctor. I promise to call tomorrow.

I sit by the beach with Venla. I tell her everything. I always do. We got same kind of minds. It’s like talking to yourself, calm and objective self. I watch as the sun plays in her hair. I’m thinking about the first time we fucked, how I pulled her hair in the bars lavatory. I cannot stop myself from smiling. Venla tells that they are going to the Greece with Tino. Asks what I want as souvenir. I don’t know.

Some chick sunbathes on strings. It is not acceptable. I didn’t even notice whole thing. Venla noticed immediately. I jokingly say that I probably would have noticed if there were surveillance camera shoved between the chicks butt cheeks. We laugh. I say that Venla have quite good enough thighs, buttocks, legs and other parts, she does not believe me - she does not believe anyone.

I call Tom and I ask him to sit down. He says that he is too busy to sit. I say that it happened again. Not as strong as last time, but it happened yet again. Tom asks what happened. I explain about The secret-murder-society of leftist theater/art/hippies. Tom does not laugh. Tom sounds like he is sitting down. Tom is tired of being strong, he says something that sounds like I’m horrible person. I try to explain. I always do.  I always try to explain my behavior, it is a bad thing. I'm scared and crying, I have been monster  to Tom, and now I have to pay for it.

I lay on the floor of my flat and cry when I hear key sliding in my door; my guest arrives. I ask how the test went, I get a thumbs down. I ask if she wants pizza, no, I promise to offer, then yes. We eat pizza, I ask Vanessa if she wants to see boyfriend. She is surprised and wants. I'll show her. She tells about upcoming divorce, and how she wants to be with girls. She asks what you should answer if someone asks where you see yourself in five years' time. I say that I do not know, I can’t even do the dishes on time. Vanessa promises to do the dishes for me tomorrow, I say that it is not necessary. Next day Vanessa leaves without doing dishes, I feel cheated.

Amygdala (Part 1 aka. The Beginning)

It is three o'clock in the morning. I sit in the swings by the beach crying. My underwear is stuffed full of money, rape has been feared throughout the night. Tom has moved away for the summer, and I have one of my nervous breakdowns.

I’m thinking about father yelling at the empty Ice hockey field.

I’m thinking about father in straitjacket.

I’m thinking about father jolting in electric shock therapy.

I’m thinking about mother telling this to me, as a warning.

Sonja sends a message, she is not coming tomorrow. Allergies. I told that I haven’t had any sleep in three days and that I’m convinced that the secret-society of leftist theater/art/hippies is trying to murder me. I ask Sonja has she heard about such plans. She says she hasn’t. She is obviously lying. Even though I know she isn’t.

Sonja explains something about her running nose, it doesn’t interest me, but I listen because it's polite. When Sonja finally stops jabbing about her mucus, I tell her quickly that I just saw a raccoon and two bats, seven brown hares and three taxis. I say that I can’t stand to be without Tom. Sonja reminds me that three months is short time, I remind her that it is not.

I tell that these swings are our place. I tell that everything has turned red, but there is no need to worry, it’s only blood in the veins of my eyes, the iron in my blood oxidizes in the moonlight. Sonja thinks that it might be better if I try to sleep. I think that I can’t.

My flat has two unknown persons. The clock is four in the morning. Those unknown peoples smell like people who have slept many hours in confined space – bad.

My feet smell horrible when I sneak past my guests. Opened the ventilation window, it creaked like a cliché. I stop to listen, neither woke up. I remove almost all of my clothes. I lie eyes open for hours without blanket and thinking about how many minutes till I have to get up. How embarrassing is to have such a smelly feet. How embarrassing it is to have ventilation window that creaks like a cliché. If only I could be fully naked. If only pharmacies were open 24/7.  If only, if only, sung the tumor as it grew to the upper lip of the not so friendly inner voice that lives behind my amygdala.