Thursday, March 24, 2016

Chamomile 0, Sean 1





I returned from the gym sweaty, only to find that the water at my apartment had been turned off. I sit here now with the mineral rich sweat feeding whatever lingers along the cutaneous. I await the return of indoor plumbing to conduct my microbiotacide, to vanquish the dreaded malassezia globosa. Tinea Versicolor.

Similar to CS's slippage of late, I have also lost my mind and am buying things that I can't afford. I purchased yet another new camera and lens this morning. It was expensive. I will need to sell something now, but I probably won't. I won't tell you what I bought. I'll just wait to see if anybody can tell the difference in the pictures I post here. It was not the latest model, and I opted out of a lens that might have had better bokeh, but struggled focusing in low light situations. But, what the fuck, money never lasts.

Time passes; love fades.


The other night I was preparing for sleep, reflecting upon my struggles obtaining and possessing the state of it. I put some water in the kettle and started preparing the tea, chamomile. I tried to open the packaging that kept the fresh tea bag from me, After one or two small parts torn away I still couldn't get enough of my thumb or forefinger into the slit to separate the two halves. I started biting at the thing. Within seconds I ended up savagely tearing the entire thing into pieces with the ferocity of my jaw and the strength of my teeth. Bits of chamomile drifting to the kitchen floor as snow made of tea leaves. They were sprinkled along my chin when I wiped, proving that I had won.

I cursed, spat, and kicked at nature as it fell, spreading it throughout the kitchen, underneath the refrigerator. It was all bath salts in catnip. The buzzer alarm of the microwave was going off - I use that to time the heating of the water, rather than letting it get too hot so that I have to wait for it to cool down before I drink it. I grabbed another tea bag in such a way as to let it know that I was in no mood for resistance. I felt like one of the bad cops at a rally. I was in charge, and not about to allow any fucking nonsense in the opening of this next bag. My message must have made it through. This one tore in a single line exactly as I intended, offering up its innards as alms to a weary man, one near the edge.


After that, all was gravy. I looked at the floor and acknowledged my victory over one chamomile tea wrapper. The phrase "beautiful loser" whispered by. You just can't have it all... 

I wondered: if I could so easily defeat one of them then how many would it take for them to overtake me completely. Certainly not the modest numbers that were represented by the sole box I had in my cabinet. I pictured being strapped to the beach by chamomilliputians, thousands of them; then, me breaking free of their miniature harnesses, making water on all of them, laughing wildly into the nighttime sky. Howling, even. Howling myself to sleep.




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