Aaahh! I had one of those Alice in Wonderland moments where I’m Alice and again I’m trying to make sense of everything around me, and nothing is making sense! And then I suddenly feel very young and naive, and things are overwhelmingly creepy and absurd all at once, and I’m unable to make everything I observe a rational, clear reality. Instead, I am being consumed, bit by bit, into this irrational construction of little creepy dreams, which are, in the end, all there is. Reality. So after a haircut and color from an old actor, I returned to my apartment and suddenly wondered why in all hell my New Yorker subscription seems to have been terminated, again I believe my mail has been confiscated by the old prick manager. The old writer of Hill St. Blues who sits and smokes like an old bump on a log in front of his blaring TV every day. I haven’t seen him in months. Caught in a spontaneous call to action, as usual, I stormed down the creaky vintage elevator to the first floor and pounded on his door, and as he again ignored the knocks, and it was slightly ajar, I opened it and my eyes widened like a frightened little girls because there, in a small portable hospital bed in front of the TV was Ken, the old writer manager, but he was about half the size I remembered him, laying in a little heap of bones, with large glasses, and tubes coming out of his nose. I immediately shut the door and my skin felt like it withered, and my fingers were trembling, and my breath was caught in my froggy sore throat. And I felt like a little shithead, like Alice, understanding nothing about this bizarre world, where nonsensical things happen everywhere, and crazy people follow you in the morning before you have even consumed a cup of coffee to take it all in…and the old charming man who sold the beautiful art deco room you’re now inhabiting and nit-picking at, is now lying half-dead in a hospital bed, and you nearly accused him of stealing your New Yorker. Good job, idiot girl.
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