11-24-02 - 9:15 pm
my bed is a witherd old woman you see at the mall who walks in only a prone position, like shes had to pick up after too many people for too long, so she scoots along as her back never stops aching. my eyes are clinched shut but my eyebrows twitch like a nervous clock with each scratch a family of rats makes on the cheap sheet rock that makes up my ceiling. i sleep with my mouth open because im afraid ill forget to breathe when i sleep. i have a space heater set for 70 degrees, but since the heater itself cost no more than 25, any setting you put it on makes the room like a furnace you may find burning in the 7th circle of hell. my lips are laquered with a thick mucus from the escaping moisture. my sheets are made of immitation cotton, it feels like sleeping in rubber pants. my bed is twin sized so both of my feet hang off to the edge, where they can spend the evening rubbing continually back and forth against the sharp metal end of the structure which holds my stereo. the dryer is running. i can pick out everything inside just by the sound its making. jeans sound like throwing a penney against the side of a car. towels sound like the guy next to you in a stall who wants to make the next big summer blockbuster in theatres be him pulling his pants down to take a shit, making enough noise and camotion to grab your attention to what one would think to be a small act. etc. im sad.
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