And it’s passed. For a minute there I thought I was finally going. Like I was just passing out. Hate for my last words to be “shit.” Expected more of a trip. All the acid I took. Purples all gone. Started on the pinks. Maybe that’s how an overdose works. You just get real tired. Or maybe I’m tripping and I don’t realize it. Maybe everything I talk about is a delusion kinda thing. Like I’m hallucinating. It’s all been pretty bizarre, you know? Maybe I’m so far gone I’m not even here.
When I’m so close to the end of what I’m telling you too. Aren’t I? Was it yesterday? Seems a long time ago now. Hardly remember the rest. Remember days ago better. Years ago. Getting caught in my zipper and spraying my pants. When was that? Hiding out in the washrooms in the basement, dark and smelly, till Miss Meyers sent someone to find me. Like it just happened. Saying I’d had an accident and spilled water and Miss Meyers not believing me but pretending she did so I wouldn’t be embarrassed. But that kid Paddy pointing it out to everyone else and them all giggling at me, the boys and the girls, that I’d pissed my pants. That was the real embarrassing part. Then them sending me home to change and having to tell Mom and begging her please don’t tell Dad. And that time getting hauled from class in grade nine by the vice-principal for letting air out of tires in the teachers’ parking lot but it wasn’t me and getting whapped on the back of the head. Someone musta told them it was me and they never found out they had the wrong kid. Bugs me the most, that whack on the head. Why’d I put up with that? Why didn’t I turn around and hit back? If I could go back to then with what I know now. So many embarrassing things to fix up. I got lots more and no time to go back and fix up if even I could.
Singing for Petra. Haven’t told you this one before. Always thought I had a good voice. I sounded good singing by myself. Thought I did. Told her I could do Neil Young, he was so easy, and started “When You’re on the Losing End.” But in front of her my voice was wrong, way weaker than even Neil Young. Too much like me. Squeaky little kid pretending to be a rock star in his bedroom mirror. And she said, “Ah, you’re a tenor.”
And that earliest memory. Bunch of kids playing guns, like our favourite game. Pscheow, you’re dead. No, I’m not. Got you inna head. You missed me. Well, pscheow, got you now. And their laughter at that. Not fair. Why does that bit stay with me? Like it was last week. Is this your life flashing before your eyes when you die? How come only these kinda memories? It’s all the humiliating parts of your life that flash before your eyes. Longer ago the clearer. Like my grandfather when he was losing his mind and going around asking for his mother who was dead like fifty years and he couldn’t recognize his own wife and his own son. Who was my dad. My dad and his stupid pots and pans for camping and his lectures and — And when I’m gone it’s like he was right. They’ll think they were right in all their warnings and worries about me and....
All this negative shit. Maybe it’s the acid. Not like last time, freaking out. I don’t think. Did it start like this? But it’s different stuff. No speed in it this time. And a lot more. Least I can talk. Hope I’m talking out loud and not just in my head.
Finish up now. Gotta hurry. But it seems like a dream to me now.
What was it? Oh yeah. After the cops left. Took our stuff. Sitting in the house, not much talking. Like none of us understanding what was going on. Missing Petra. Me anyhow. I shoulda talked to her at the demo.
I just thought of another one for her party trick. Going all the way.
Shoulda talked to her at the demo. Shoulda coulda.
I’m so tired. Gotta keep going just a little bit longer. Keep the eyes —