Dennett, Slayer And Tobacco. A Day In The Life Of A College Girl
Written in 1999. Originally titled “The Hangover”
You wake up but wish you didn’t. “Fuck,” you mumble and reach for the glass of Tropicana orange juice on your nightstand. “Fuck,” you mumble because it’s not there. You knocked it over in your sleep. “I’ll clean it up later. Still got a while before it starts to stink.”
You slip your feet into your plushy elephant slippers. “Ew!” You shriek. The juice soaked into the elephants. The right one absorbed most of the juice. It looks sad and jaundiced now. You retract your feet and wipe them on the bed sheet.
You trudge over piles of tobacco drenched clothing, and empty Winston smoke packs to a half empty litre bottle of Evian standing in the center of your desk. You grab the bottle, unscrew the cap, and gulp. That’s a little better.
When you put the bottle down you notice your titanium rimmed specs on the desk. You feel relief about not having to go searching for them today. You put them on. You glance at the alarm clock on your nightstand. It reads 4:30 p.m. Fuck. You missed your 9 a.m. class again.
You stagger into the bathroom and plop on the toilet. You push a stream of pee and listen to it trickle into the toilet and grimace. “Fuck: I gotta test tomorrow.” Your bowels rumble. “I shouldn’t have eaten those jalapeno poppers.” You look over at the empty toilet paper holder. You slap your thigh, wiggle, and flush. You promise yourself to bring the napkins from your purse in with you next time.
You lean over the sink. Your hand plays with the chunky faucet knob. You hate that knob. Adjusting the water temperature takes too long. You stick your hands in the stream. It’s too cold. You let it be cold.
You turn and turn a bar of Dove in your hands. It is the worst soap ever. It takes forever to wash off. You have it because your mom brought it over last week.
You near the mirror and inspect your giant pores and droopy eyes. You splash water on your face. You remember the six pints of Kilkenny you inhaled last night. You push a toothbrush layered with green Colgate into your mouth and brush brush brush then spit. You stare at yourself some more. “Who am I?”
You finally come out of the bathroom. You put on your warm thick purple cotton robe over your black Slayer T-shirt. You plop down on your wobbly black leather chair and turn to chapter twelve of Dennett’s Consciousness Explained.
“If I can just get going I’ll do this,” you mumble.
When your kite string gets snarled, in principle it can be unsnarled, especially if you’re patient and analytic. But there’s a point beyond which principle lapses and practicality triumphs.
“What the fuck? Eleven chapters of not explaining consciousness followed by this mouthful?”
Dennett is on the test. You have to keep reading.
Some snarls should just be abandoned. Go get a new kite string. It’s actually cheaper in the end than the labor it would take to salvage the old one, and you get your kite airborne again sooner.
You are thinking about him again. Why does that happen every time you sit to work? It’s as if all desperate thoughts say to one another, “Oh look, Karina is in the thinking room, it’s time for us to join!” And then they intrude.
“Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck him,” you yell.
Why is he on your mind? You left him for a reason.
Your nerves jolt you up and steer you to your stereo. You pick through the stack of loose CDs on the shelf. You slide one out from the middle and slip it into the player and press “play” then click click click click click click forward to track seven.
Tom Araya’s deep throaty voice roars from the speakers:
Minutes seem like days
Since fire ruled the sky
The rich became the beggars
And the fools became the wise
Memories linger in my brain
Of burning from the acid rain
A pain I never have won
You shout out the so familiar lyrics in your best death metal voice. Your fingers strum the chords of your air guitar along with Hanneman and King.
You stomp back and forth and bounce from wall to wall. Then click click click back to track 4. You listen to 4 and 5 and 6 and then click click click click to 10. You press forward past the first one minute and fifty-seven seconds that is too slow to thrash to.
Close your eyes, look deep in your soul
Step outside yourself and let your mind go
Frozen eyes stare deep in your mind as you die
Your body falls soaked on the bed. You close your eyes. Your head sinks into the pillow.
Close your eyes and forget your name
Step outside yourself and let your thoughts drain
As you go insane, go insane
***
In the late 90's, after an argument with my parents, I moved out. I found a tiny bachelorette in a dingy but hip part of downtown Toronto. In this story I was relishing the freedom of not having anyone tell me what to do while discovering the pain of irresponsible decisions. I learned a lot the first year of living alone.
Here is a piece of art I was working on at the time:
My path through life meandered. I eventually found my way. I don't think that it is ever too late.
Check out this video I made on what happens if you force yourself to do something that on a deep level you really don’t want to do.
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