Three O' Clock Cocktail, (In The A.M.): A Literary Compilation By Joleen Ray

Bipolar Slapstick Suicide; Cough Syrup for Tired Minds

I sit on the living room couch, smoking a cigarette and listening to Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb." Tall boy beer cans filled with nasty cigarette butts invade my vision. Overflowing ashtrays. Some trash strewn about. An iron on the coffee table where it doesn't belong, along with dirty glasses, some of which are filled with old liquid containing rotten quartered limes. Disconnection notices from the electric company. A napkin with some math written on it. Dust. A dead cockroach. A stained area rug. It's time to get it together.

Today is a new day. It's time to get tip top. I can do this, right? Who am I kidding? I'm in a rut. A dirty, nasty rut. I'll just work at the restaurant that I hate, and go to school, which I suck at, and not think about it. Just block it out. It will get clean one day. That's what maids and paper plates are for.

If only I was dead. Indeed. Death. It's interesting. The sound of the word makes my mouth kinda water. Maybe I'll slit my wrists vertically so the nurses can't sew me back together again like Humpty Dumpty. I'll lie peacefully in the warm water that fills the bathtub so that the blood doesn't coagulate. I'll just fade out of existence. When they find me, my skin will be a pale grey-white, like paper. My mouth gaped open and lips blue, the color of peace.

I'm hungry. I go into the kitchen to find something to eat. Yet, there are lily pads growing in the cold water. Once upon a time the water was warm and clean and soapy, but I neglected to wash the dishes altogether. Now I can't eat something because there's swollen pasta shells floating around from when I made macaroni and cheese. I can't bear to sink my hand into it. It glares back at me mocking my procrastination, and my innate ability to turn a blind eye. Forget it. I'll starve. Fatty.

There's this bridge over the freeway that I cross to get to work. There's a tall chain-link fence, but that won't hinder me. I'll climb the fence. I'll jump off into traffic and splatter in the street. Or bounce off a car before catapulting to the ground. It'll definitely cause a wreck. Maybe some casualties. It will reap havoc. It will be catastrophic. Beautiful. There will be pain throughout my body. Then, out like a candle. Plus, if I need a blood transfusion, I'll die instantly since, fortunately, no one knows my blood type is Rh Negative. Everyone wins.

I migrate from the couch to the bedroom carrying a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I sit on the unmade bed. Look at all these clothes. I don't wear half of them because I'm too fat to fit into them. I have hangers sticking out all crooked and jagged from where I yanked off a shirt or whatever without consideration for neatness. My bedroom is a pig pen. Disorganized. Filthy. Atrocious. I can't seem to get it together long enough to keep my things nice and fresh. I need to shape up. But I'm tired of thinking that crap. I function better in a disorganized environment. No one tells me what to do, how to live.

I've got five used razors strewn around the bathtub. Five. And an empty roll of toilet paper thrown to one side of the toilet because there is no trash can. Beside the empty toilet paper roll lie a few used q-tips all yellow at the ends, and a dirty bra. The bathtub is rimmed with black. I don't even own comet.

It would be ideal if at an amusement park I rode a coaster, and the carriage I'm strapped into goes careening off track into glorious thin air and then rapidly descends, crashing face first into the hot black tar pavement of some parking lot. If I don't die at first from the impact, I'll be stuck in the chest guards which will crush my ribs in such a way that, were paramedics to release me, I'd just die. They'll ask if I would like to talk to any family members or friends before I go and I'll say "No," because there is no one. So after some deliberation, they'll release the chest panel, thank God, and I'll be a goner, just like that. A-B-C, 1-2-3.

It's time to go to bed now. I could ingest sleeping pills, or some heavy prescription drugs which, sadly, I don't have, and just drift off into a permanent sleep. I won't take Tylenol because if it doesn't work, I'll just be on dialysis, but won't achieve my goal, which is death. So I'll just go to sleep now. No bath tonight. Filthy ragamuffin. My beer's finished. I don't have any Tylenol anyway. I have work in the morning.

#

I'm awake. Painfully awake, and It hurts. Damn. It's painful to be awake. Another day. Off to work. Late again. What does today have in store for me? A nod and a "Good morning." A table waiting for me to serve it. They know how pathetic I am, or do they even bother to know? I doubt it. Either way, they'll tip me a mere eight percent, and then forget about me. I'm worth more than that aren't I? Or am I? Who cares? Anyone? No. Not them. Not me.

If the Gods are in my favor today, I'll begin puking up blood in the restroom. The taste will be metallic, lovely, like metal, like death. The thought makes me blood thirsty. They'll find me lying on the bathroom floor, my mouth dripping a morbid red. Knees buckled under my hips. Arms grabbing at the cold, porcelain toilet. I'll be forgotten in there for a couple hours. At first, they'll knock. Then they'll break open the locked door! It will be astonishing. Remarkable. And innocent enough, I suppose, but they'll initially think I'm on drugs. How amusing that would be.

Table 33 is staring at me. Is it because I'm fat? Probably. Its always because I'm fat. He's kind of cute. Handsome, I guess. He's a pale guy, dark hair, tall, kinda lanky, different. Kinda looks like a junkie. Hes just my type! There's something about him! Some kind of glimmer in his eyes. Intelligence?! Flare! An attractive psychosis of sorts. Drugs?! He's handsome! He's looking at me. It's like I know him. No. It's like he knows me!

He calls me over to his table.

"So you get out much?" My handsome lank questions.

Feeling like I'm gonna puke, I safely remain quiet.

And then the inner monolog kicks in. Am I fat? Am I too quiet? Do I look like I'm about to puke? Does he notice me gritting my teeth? I'm freaking out inside and he KNOWS it. I can TELL he knows it. I'm so transparent. No. He's just smart.

He asks, "Are you alright?"

I stare. Best to not act.

"Well, you are odd, but I'd like to think you're just unique. I left my number on this napkin. Give me a call."

He is so unusual! It's love at first sight! How could anyone be so bold, and forward, and confident?! That sparkle in his eyes...I already love him!

So, we date and after about three weeks I buy him a Harley for Valentines Day! We even have a song! It's a Steve Miller song! How romantic! Cliche? Oh I dont care!!!

#

It's a beautiful day at work today! I'm ready to take on a new adventure! A new MILLINIEM! I'm waiting tables with my best foot forward! Never hindered to speak! Chatty, even! Weeks have gone by and I haven't fixated on suicide or death YET! Well, that's not entirely true! Hee hee! I've dreamed of dying in his arms, asleep on his lap, during a dance, amidst a sweet kiss! I would die happy! I've never felt this way before! Perpetually thrilled! Oh my God! I'm going to have his babies! I'm going to live, not the American dream, but the human dream! To love life and all its patterns of beauty! To smell the sweetness in the purity of the rain! To witness the dear innocence in the eyes of a child! Maybe even my own child with HIM!

I'm walking on sunshine! I'm floating in mid-air! I'm on cloud nine! I've found love! A deep, penetrating love!

I'm tripping over a floor mat! I'm sliding face first into a rack of drinking glasses! I'm moving in slow motion! The glasses are tumbling over! I'm headed for the floor! I'm eating shards of glass! There are pieces stuck in my neck, and chin, and throat, piercing my vocal chords...there's blood dripping down to my chest...I'm suffocating on my own blood...there's no stopping it now...I'm going to meet my maker as these horrified old ladies stop at mid bite of their soups and salads, and stare at me, bugeyed, as I go down! I'm dying...

I pray, "Gods, if you exist, please don't let me die like this. Not yet. I'm SO not ready. I've, (hack, hack), found, (cough, hack), true (choke), love, (hack)..."

No answer. Shit.

No sound except for the gurgling in my throat. Everything becomes dim. No warm, glowing light at the end of the tunnel for me. No hand reaching out. Not Jesus, not Buddha, not Muhammad. Not anyone. No smiles from Angels above. No formerly living loved ones greeting me with applause. Just dim. Just a blackening black. It's cold and blank. A dull blank. And this is what I've spent most of my life chasing after, desiring, hunting, lusting after; my own demise.

Nobody to calm my chills now. Nobody to hold my limp, dying spirit. Nobody to tell me everything is going to be alr... "Gurgle, gurgle, hack, gurgle, splat."