HOLYFUCKINGJEEEEEEEeeeeEEEZAZ. The previous tenant of my pad committed suicide. In this very pad.XD BRAHAHAHAHA. Whatsisname again? Alvin, Arnold? I forget. If his soul is still roving around this place hidden parallel in the fifth dimension, I want him to chat me up. Strike a conversation. What’s it like to be dead, and not know it; and stalking naked apes in the bathroom.XD Har. Point made, I shall write a short story in the perspective of an apparition when my creative brain cells flare up and launch an acrobatic trapeze inside my cranium.
Uh.
Why am I writing? I’m cooking a short story about a mortician.XDD Teeeeeeeheeeeee.XDDD I mean, why am I writing right now? Ar. Dunno.XD
According to my impeccable observation skillz, I hallucinate only when I smoke small amounts of weed or swank prodigal amounts of beer and coffee. I mistook a cigarette for a cigarette and lit it up and found it… different. It was only when I have puffed the drug, filled my lungs, and exhaled the smoke that my brain rattled and found the missing link: the stick of red Marlboros had its tobacco replaced with crushed marijuana leaves. One puff granted me ten minutes of momentary bliss. I found the wooden table funny. The glass on top it funny. The white bland walls were funny. The tiles were funny. The boys were funny. The boys mocking the girl was funny. The Red Horse mucho grande was funny. The sweat on the skin of the bottle was funny. The trickles of water pooling at the foot of the bottle was funny. I was laughing like an idiot for no apparent reason. One puff. Anything more than that would turn me into a demon-possessed Emily Rose, eyeballs rolling backward, mouth frothing with acid, my tongue curling backward to my throat. I haven’t smoked weed for centuries, nay, six months, since my last seizure.XD and yet the taste is so alien now. It’s as if I never smoked weed my entire life. I am innocent! Aye!
Everything is a novelty when you have memory deterioration like I do. I reread J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher In The Rye and don’t recall anything innit. It was like perusing it for the first time. Happeeee.:D Hum. I was like twelve when I first read it so prolly anyone sticking inside my shoes would render his own brain oblivious. Reading it was like celestial gratification, like sex in its divine level. Haaaaaaaaarrrrr, stupid analogy.XD It’s another religious-themed book, that. Catcher in the rye, saving souls before they leap off the cliff—it’s like Jezaz, yunno.XD Actually, the right way to pronounce Jesus is ji-ses, pinoy style. Cornflakes. BRUHAHAHA.XD
My brain is scattered all over the walls of my skull.XP
Anyhorse, back to my favorite psychoactive vegetable, the ganga thingamajigger. I peel my eyes open the next morning hearing the collective croaks of my bullfrog message alert tone. I scrabble for my phone, find it, but without any message. Minutes later, I hear it again but find no messages. This happens four more times then it registers: another auditory hallucination. The frogs croak and croak like a broken record in my ears. Wishing it would go away, I just photographed a colony of hyperactive bullfrogs in my head, they jumping and leaping in ecstasy in the rain. Last time I was schizophrenic my neon yellow beach skirt was gathered on my lap and I was defecating and smoking in a bathroom in La Union. It began with whispers from the outside. It was a woman’s voice ranting rapidly in English. It became louder and stentorian, insulting the sand in my hair and my panties. That my urethra is housing fisheggs from the mother fish that got trapped in my vagina while I was dipping in the brine. It was talking about me in third person, mentioning my name as if I wasn’t there, and then it hit me: that voice is mine.
Hearing your own voice takes a while to register in your brain. Listen to yourself talking and you’ll hardly even recognize your voice—unless you listen to it from a recording.
