Circling around me is the kitchen. My head isn’t quite right so that explains the whirling room. By “isn’t quite right” I mean that I feel sick, and yet not. Everything feels different and frustratingly the same. I should get used to it. But it’s hard to.
The kitchen is still spinning, but in the spinning I can pinpoint the cupboards. Like a child that’s reaching towards a moving fan blade I’m surprised when my hand runs into the wood of the cabinet. Is the room really spinning? No of course not, just a lack of depth perception. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve thought all day. Or is it night? I forget my head’s been like this for so long I’ve lost track of the hours.
I finally fumble the cupboard open and got a pack of generic brand Pop-Tarts out. It takes a few more minutes before I can get the foil open. How do people live like this?
The crumbs tumble down my dirty shirt like an avalanche and I chuckle. I can’t help but imagine my torso as a great mountain on which a landslide of debris is hurtling towards the base. It is hard to focus.
The doorbell rings and my head is still a Ferris wheel gone wrong. But no matter, I can pull myself together. Shuffling to the door must take longer than the person or persons on the other side must like as they keep ringing the bell petulantly.
I open the door and remember I’m in my boxers and that I can’t remember the last time I took a shower. I also remember that today is Sunday and I promised my parents I’d go to church with them at Seven Thirty.
As my mom stares at me in a state annoyance I can’t help but wish the expression on her face said “disbelief”. She’s in her green dress with the matching hat and my dad is wearing his typical Sunday attire: Brown coat, white shirt, khaki pants, and a red tie that’s making me thirsty for Hawaiian Punch.
My head still feeling like someone took a can of insecticide to my inner ear, my dad starts laughing and mouths “told you” to my mom. Or maybe he actually said it, I don’t know.
I’m trying to figure out why exactly my dad is triumphantly grinning at my mom when she closes the door on my face. I can hear my dad still laughing as they walk down the hall out of my apartment complex.
I swear to God I’m going to stop mixing prescription pain killers and hard alcohol.