My Father Was Dead.

My father was dead. Or he was just out wandering somewhere. Maybe he was still alive. I didn’t know. But my mother had decided to take the tiny house at the top of the hill with a remarkable view of the bay and live in a giant bed with a lesbian much younger than her but with ratty hair. Their bed was positioned at a picture window and my mother wouldn’t get up. She was trying make me uncomfortable but I wasn’t.

I mean, I had just been caught masturbating by a group of strangers and I had shit smudged on my ass and legs. I still had to go to the bathroom, and so that’s where I went, through a maze of rooms, all of the bathrooms full or broken, until I was out and flying like I used to have done, under electrical towers, skimming over the water, getting too high, on a plane that would never take off and then it did and I was surrounded by the nightmarish staring-faced people that would never stop until I was dead. And so I woke myself up.