Do you know what happens in a day? No, you don’t. Nobody knows exactly what can happen in a day. You can’t be specific with the deets, you can’t pinpoint it, you can’t be certain — it is a whirlpool of uncertainties. I mean, you can say a few things about how you planned your day, but you can’t be a hundred percent accurate, can you? Even if you did planned it, get it on your to-do list, cross some poop out, it will eventually evolve, and span the shit out of your fucking control. So, no — nobody knows what can happen in a day. At least not in details. Albeit, In perspective, literally anything can happen in a day. It’s like a combustion of methane, propane and the insane. Gases, and people. What’s the semblance, you asked? Oh, why, kind sir? I’ll be glad to oblige you. We’re all faded like the mist created from Niagara falls and ready to explode — like Oppenheimer’s creation. Not implode. We aren’t the titan submersible. That’s one of the many possibilities that could happen in a day.
The spontaneous combustion. The spontaneity. Do you think the kind, and indigenous people of Hiroshima and Nagasaki woke up one frigid morning and ticked "nuclear radiation blast" off their to-do list? Do you think I woke up today and decided to write this? Hell, did you wake your ass up this morning, day or night and decided to read this? No. It just happened. That happened. So when I asked earlier in this fucked up writeup of mine what can happen in a day, I was — it was a trick question. If you answered it — you must be clairvoyant or some shit. Pardon my french. But, bruh? Common, man. Ha-ha. In a day, you could be offered a job — you know, the average stuff. You could work construction? Be a flipping janitor? Dance with the mop stick when you feel nobody is watching you, then cry in the bathroom, when you catch your reflection in the grubby mirror. You could do backslides on wet tiles, trip, fall, crack your hip and realize just then you’re over fifty. Or, you could just spin fucking spin-boards and invite hungry, angry customers into your life. As If spinning boards isn’t fucked up already. In a day, you could be promoted at your workplace — lead a small gang of minions — not the yellow ones, you could literally be the president... not of the world, ha. You sly monkey! You thought I was going there, didn’t you? Hold your horses, mi amigo. I mean, you could be the president of some clubhouse community, some frat boy shit, the debate team? I don’t know, um, you know, some nerd shit? Or, in a day, you could fall in love with a total stranger, and build stupid, funny scenarios in your head. Yes, you could. I didn’t (a fucking liee), but, you could? Go ahead. Fall in love. It’s a really great feeling. I assure you? I don’t know. Fucking do it anyways.
You get hurt along the way? That’s the journey of life, isn’t it? A pretty devastating journey if you asked me. The journey is the reward? The risk is the reward? Or, whatever that quote said. In a day, I fell in love. On Monday. Mon cheri. Falling in love on Mondays are now jinxed. I should have seen it. Monday? Who falls in love on Mondays? Crazy! I fell in love on Monday. With a beautiful, smart girl. On a Monday? Now I see the signs. Love truly is blind. I really hope Ray Charles finds love. My love anecdote isn’t your typical love story. No awns, no talking stages, no phone calls — a lol of text messages though. Phew. I’ll miss that. Waking up to text messages really did some magic on me. But, yeah, it’s mainly just love. Head dive in. Broken bones and shit. Not necessarily love at first sight, more of love at an instance. The heys, the hellos, the how are you doings. You know. That type of stuff.
It’s intoxicating. My heroin. My overdose. My oxycodone acetaminophen. My lullaby. My.. fuck shit. I am running out of words. I’ll stop there. When you fall in love, it feels like a therapy session, doesn’t it? Do you single beans connect with this? No. You don’t. I say this, because for the brief moment you are in love, everything feels therapeutic. The conversations, the bonding, the giggles, the um, the err, the hmm, the mms in the conversations, the uncertainties, everything feels like heaven on earth. But how long does it last? I knew a friend whose relationship lasted for about five years before they pulled the plug, and drained the flood. How did you do that? I asked him one sultry afternoon. He smiled. It was this nostalgic type of smile. It wasn’t contagious, but it reminded you of a lot. A lot. Reminds you of a lot, you feel like crying yourself. He said he tried making everyday feel like the first time. The duck does that mean? How do you do that? Doesn’t that create a loop? And doesn’t this loop gets tiring? I was inquisitive. I always am. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but I always am. Yes, yes, it does. It gets tiring sometimes. He wringed his nose reflexly. Like some invisible fly landed on it. But it lasted five years, didn’t it? Yes. It did. He smiled. That’s what love is all about. Staying through the storm, the mud, the rain, and coming out victorious. Sounds like an advice. Do you know how long mine lasted? Wait, before you read further, take a guess. If you got it correctly, ten points to you. Okay, you done? Cool. Read ahead.
Two weeks and four days. That’s how long it lasts. If you laugh, the baba yaga would come for you. What, you were expecting years? Ha! I fucking wish. Maybe it’s just me — maybe I need help. Maybe I am incorrigible, maybe I deserve a self-flagellation. Maybe I just need a break from all the propane, methane and the insane. Maybe I need a two weeks and four days to break away from the atmosphere of everything. Maybe I just need to be a bit more logical in my approach and in my reasoning, maybe then, I’d break this vicious cycle I find myself in. Maybe. Or maybe I just need someone who can endure the rain, and the storm. Emotional attachment Is no joke. It’s a um, it’s a gift and a curse. Especially for a writer. My eyes are all bulgy, and my heart is heavy. Her name — when spoken or invoked now feels like a latin prayer uttered from lips of a frightened priest —it invokes the grimace shake in me. Got me convulsing in regrets — asking myself, why? Why would you hurt yourself like this? Will I ever get over this? Hopefully, yes. Yes, I would. In like two weeks, four days.
I don’t even know her birthday.
A lot can happen in a day. But few can happen in two weeks and four days.
