is waif
TRYPOPHOBIA
“‘It started with my pores. They just became more noticeable than usual:
first, in the way a gay Sephora sales associate might gently read you for; but then, in a scientific way. And the funny thing about this whole thing is that the Grindr dude I hooked up with told me it was contagious, but that wasn’t what I was worried about catching. Open relationships are tough. I didn’t see what he was talking about, so it didn’t sound like science. I know the science of the earth much more intimately now, partially because I took a look at my AP Enviro book a few weeks ago for a refresher, but also because I felt its chaotic energy amass growths inside of me. The clusters began to pop up in multiple places on my body. I named my first and biggest one Madonna because it was on my shoulder and gave me the lookof a lopsided 80s sex diva with shoulder pads. At first, I begged god to let me realize that I was hallucinating the constant pulsation underneath my epidermis. It buzzed so loud that I constructed episodic choral harmonies with it as I fell asleep.
It sang me lullabies. It ate my headphones, for it was jealous that I could not be satiated by its melodic companionship. It pleasured me when I couldn’t pleasure myself. It sucked my earlobe so good, I prayed for another one to grow on my sister shoulder, for equilibrium’s sake. I promptly named it St. Gaga, because I’m gay and corny. I set up a shrine to the lotus plant and its erotic energies, where I performed daily masturbation exercises for the lotus to consume my seed, much to my boyfriend’s dismay (that was formerly his job). They were nourished by my fluid, and they continued to grow beyond anything I could’ve imagined. They began to intertwine with my mind. We reached singularity.
“ ‘And that’s when they turned on me. It started when I wanted to venture beyond the 80s look we had constructed together. They calculated my worth in pennies. They converted my taste to fertilizer for their sanctified anger. It was my fault. Our love soured and clumped in my psyche. I needed to get it out. It was parasitic, and I was desperate. I consulted my friend Coco, and she’s a freelance airplane because she has really strong wings, go figure.
She told me that she’d heard lotuses only died by silver blade. We stopped by the metalsmith on my block and commissioned a blade of two feet, long enough to penetrate the lotus and reach the tip of my infected soul. Coco is a lovely dragon and a stand up friend! I’m sure she will be coming to visit me soon.’
“ ‘Glad to hear you have a support system,’ I reply.
“He continues: ‘One example of how egalitarian and humanistic Coco is was how, when time came to plunge the blade into me, she gave me a big ole kiss and told me she always knew this time would come, and no one loved me the way heaven would.
“ ‘And I almost tasted it, Cotton candy clouds, can you believe it? But, as most things in my life, it was snatched away from me, a black hole that went reverse and haywired me all the way to this hospital bed. I am not sick. I am free!’
“He was sweating a lot. I thought I should get him some water, but where was Brenda?
These goddamn nurses. ‘You actually lost a lot of blood,’ I tell him, trying to keep my tone steady. ‘We had to do a transfusion.’
“ ‘Oh,’ he clicks, ‘That wasn’t blood. That was my semen converted to pure lotus energy. They store it all in their innermost papules, where the color changes to mimic blood. It’s normal.’
“ ‘Have you been taking any medication?’ I ask. Finally, in come the fucking orderlies. At this point, I really needed to take a shit, and that was contributing to some of my anxiety.”
“ ‘Ummmmmmm no. Except weed, if you count that.’
“ ‘We are going to have you sent up to Psychiatric to get an evaluation done, ok?’ I knew he was gonna be struggler because of his eyes. They were chilling. ‘I’m not crazy. I just told you I’m free.’
“I was right. ‘You are but we want to make sure you’re safe as well. My name is Dr. Watson. You can call on me anytime you’d like and I will personally make a visit to see you.’ I go over to my favorite orderly and whisper, ‘Jake, make sure Jenkins reads his whole chart. I’m about to go blow up the 3rd floor bathroom.’ I whispered it because not everyone deserves to know my business.
“As I run down the hall, shit slipping out of me, I couldn’t help but think of PJ Harvey as the patient screamed ‘I’M NOT CRAZY I’M FREE’ at the orderlies behind me. They have a similar tone of voice. There’s this one song I really like by her, but I forgot the name, and I still do. God what is that song? Shit.”
“Keep telling the story,” Dr. Jenkins says. Dr. Watson shifts in his hospital gown. “Right. Then, I saw my hand, pores noticeable in the way a hipster employee of lush might point out lovingly.”
Dr. Jenkins stares at Dr. Watson. “When did the clusters pop up?”
Dr. Watson goes to lift his hand to gesticulate, but he’s strapped to his bed. “Ummmmm. I actually don’t remember.”