Day 1 - Vapors (novel chunk)

DAY 1 - VAPORS (to avoid spending all my time fixing formatting, entries will be in block text) I’ve felt the vapors for as long as I can remember. I wish sometimes that I could control them, these wavy daydreams that transport me to an alternate time whenever I get bored, or tired, or stuck in a conversation I want no part of - like now. The Gorgon is spewing words at me and I’m just trying to escape. Despite the moniker my generally unkind brain has saddled her with, The Gorgon is actually quite pretty in the disposable fashion that men of status like to have on their arm. She’s slim, but with enough curve to fill out a sports bra and yoga pants in a way that causes a reaction in those who would be interested. Jealously in those who aren’t. Her face is pristine, blank, non-offensive. It lacks character, but so does she. It’s possible she’s been hamstrung by the misconception that being wanted is the same as having value, but I can’t feel any sympathy for her about that. Everyone has their cross to bear. What I find most annoying is that once she has fixed you with her gaze you are stuck. Like stone. Trying to get away from her once she’s decided to share her latest drama is a near impossibility. Oh, and it’s worth noting that this is especially painful since her breath reminds me of gorgonzola cheese. Despite the fortunate nickname dovetail that provides, it really is a fucking bummer sitting there with eyes watering, hearing about how on-again/off-again boyfriend is on-again. It’s a waterfall of blather … “I know better…” , “He’s so sweet, though…”, “I think I can trust him …”, “If he’s gonna act like a jackass then I’ll…” I might be angry if I was more invested in my life. But I’m 30, and I’m a customer service rep, and I don’t see anything getting much more exciting than that anytime soon, so I let her ramble as my gaze crosses the wavy screen that coalesces from the small, transparent spots that always harbor at the corner of my vision. If I concentrate I can see some things more clearly, but when I concentrate it’s obvious to anyone around me, so in a situation like this it’s all peripheral. Sometimes It’s flashes. Sometimes it’s whirls, or strips, or like oil bleeding through a canvas. Today I see Him, it’s always Him, and He’s being hollowed again - at least that’s how I’ve come to think of it. He is fixed in place, and the colors in Him dull, while those surrounding seem to vibrate and brighten. Sometimes they threaten to cross the vapors, but never do. I’ve tried to give him a name, but have found myself unable to do so. My name is Mickelson. And this is my life. I hate work, but it doesn’t haunt me when I’m not there. I suppose I am a case of wasted potential, but I find I’d rather not care than care. I’m not sure why. I like the idea of love, and spiritual enlightenment, and being kind to others, but those concepts seem like far off ideals rather than living, breathing possibilities in my existence. Occasionally I’m inspired to make a change, dedicate myself to capturing and exploring my full power, or whatever, but that only lasts til the next beer, or the knock on my door that’s coming in 3,2... KNOCK, KNOCK. Told ya. It’s 12am, so Julie’s here. I open the door and she’s leaning against the frame, Misfits t-shirt sliding near off her shoulder and pants low enough to show she’s unencumbered by panties, and hasn’t shaved in the last few days. She’s got that alley cat look that a meaner person would call slutty, and a nicer person would call, lonely, but I just think of as tiring. I don’t want her, but can’t resist her either. We’re like decaying stars in orbit, just waiting for a final collapse to end the both of us. Until then, we continue to dance. “Sss’up, sssexy,” she slurs. Drunk. Sometimes she drinks, sometimes she doesn’t. Most times she does.