What Am I, a Bicycle?

Or, The World Clock on My Phone Means Nothing
Or, There Are Motherfucking Cats Fighting on the Roof, and I Think I Just Heard One Fall Off

I was going to do a pretty dry, straightforward post about what's been going on the past week, but that got difficult as I have too many feelings, and I still can't properly structure any of my thoughts. I go between feeling elated then lonely then listless then frustrated. I can't quite figure out what I'm doing here yet. I think I'm on vacation. I don't know what that means.

Anyway, since I'm obviously going crazy, I've just compiled a couple of stream-of-consciousness deals I've written over the past few days. Sometimes I'm almost coherent, but it's not something I'd like to get used to.

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IF A TRAIN LEAVES from Montreal at 8:30 am on July 23, and a plane leaves from Manila at 11 am on July 24 but also at 11 pm on July 23, at what point will the difference in time zones start to make sense? When will I understand what day it is? What will it feel like when I’m hurtling through time in the body of an aircraft, a time machine cleverly disguised as a plane? What will it feel like when the world unfreezes, again engaging in its perpetual motion, and I am awakened from this listless existence where I am haunted by the shuffling feet of lethargy and ennui? Will my days still blend together? Will they continue to lie before me, stretching out into infinity as if in a perspective study, their only end an early night’s sleep? What day is it now? It wouldn’t make a difference.
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I think that, if I stared hard enough, I could make myself into you.
I think that maybe I’ve been studying without knowing, tracing dotted lines and cutting out patterns. But no matter how hard I try or how closely I look, I will always be only the paper doll version, cardboard clothes falling off at their poorly bent creases.

Maybe what I really want is to turn you into me, because maybe the only person I’ll truly love is myself. The only person who won’t ever leave is me, and even that’s a little questionable. If I turned you into me, would you leave? Or would I decide that I didn’t like myself and abandon you in your paper doll clothes? Probably. I’d let you turn to pulp in the rain, and I would know that you couldn't chase me.
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THERE SHE GOES again disrupting the poetry of her collarbone.
A flash of red is a plea that you’ll remember her face, because she won’t tell you her name.
Her walk is brutal, her hips, her skinny, swaggering boy hips, unforgiving.
I’ll always think she hates me.
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Sometimes
When I am drunk
My thoughts
Move vertically.

This also happens
When I am talking crazy.
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I wonder sometimes if I made you up, or if it was the other way around. I wonder if you made me into you. Maybe that’s why you left.
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Last night I meant to write a series of drunk emails.
Instead I threw up in my grandma’s bathroom.
And knocked over a picture of the Pope.
My cousin passed out on the couch.
And our grandma found her at 4am with all the lights on.
Today a really wide truck tried to get through a narrow street where our car was.
My aunt rolled down the window.
Translated, she yelled,
“What is this? What’s going on? What am I, a bicycle?”

I’m staying here an extra nine days.