ihavebeenfloated

I feel strange. I feel bouncy. I’m in that mood where I contort my eyes and look at the cup of pens sitting on my desk with a puzzled, somewhat quizzical, look on my face, as if they had just said something ridiculously peculiar to me. I don’t know what this mood is, but I feel like saying something clever and witty that signifies how utterly alive I am right now.

But I haven’t got anything like that to say.

I feel like writing song lyrics that you can’t possibly sing. I feel like strumming a pattern on the guitar that I can’t actually play, but it doesn’t matter because it sounds like music to me. I feel like writing a short paragraph length blurb on a character who exists inside my head who I like to think about as some sort of facsimile for me, and smile while I’m thinking of them. I’d probably go like this.

He bounces around between people, like a silver ball being jerked around by paddles surrounded by multicolored blinking lights. He says hello to people whose names he doesn’t even know. He drapes his arms over their shoulders and leans on them, not so much leaning, but supporting his very existence on them. He engages in conversations that aren’t even conversations so much as they are loosely connected sentences that bare no relationship to each other at all outside of the fact that the people speaking them have nothing to say between themselves. When he thinks that sentence, he thinks, “How’s that for a fucking run on, bitches?” Then he thinks, “Who the fuck am I talking to?” But, it doesn’t really matter, does it? He thinks, “Well, here’s to entertaining yourself with fantasy,” and he grins.

And that’s that, I guess.

“I can’t stand it when the banging stops.”

Yeah, that’s it.