This morning at 3:17, I was overcome with eleven streams of thought in angel dusted delirium—maddening monsoon of mentality—frigid palm shellacked in viscid phlegm. I ferociously shook my arm leaving my hand limp yet unable to shake the iced lubricity from my fingers; spread wide and webbed to avoid touching one another. My mouth opened beyond any ligamentous shearing point—jaw muscle cramped in blistering knots. My mood indescribable, my perspective fevered. An emerald isosceles trapezoid twirled within my left eye—five points notated in silver nimbus, rotating counterclockwise—splintering my vision in undulating octaves. As weird as this sounds, the strangeness had all but begun.

angel-dust-pcpI used a lighted magnification mirror (medical grade manufactured by Conair) to self-examine my eye. There was what appeared to be an organism swimming in the blackened pool of pupil; so dilated, not the slightest colored fringe was visible. It appeared like a three dimensional grid—a parasitic paramecium or micro-alien with eight flagella. I had watched an episode of Medical Mysteries a few weeks back where a man actually did have parasitic worms winding beneath the mucous sheathed surface of his eye but couldn’t remember what it was called.

Upon ultra-close scrutiny, I could see a thickened hair protruding from the center of my pupil, whipping violently—its corpulent shaft becoming swollen, vomiting frothy resin onto the mirror like a spitting cobra. The surmounting tension unbearable whilst mucid air whiffed atop my brain—echoes of exhalations, ears ringing. I blacked out. No idea how long but awakened in the median—a grassy patch brimmed in concrete curb betwixt two sides of an eight lane highway. What the fuck was happening to me? A horrific light filed my eyes—luminescent sandpaper grinding my consciousness into flattened meat nub—like thousands of baseball stadium sodium vapor lamps. I felt like a baby frying in an industrial microwave oven—inch long fire ants peeling epithelial cells from my milky-pink flesh.

“Oh God . . . please help me.”

There I was window shopping on 49th street—my reflection pristine: wearing a stylish purple velvet suit (Gucci) and brown suitcase by Jean Paul Gaultier. Passers by whispering, chattering, plotting: look at him mommy . . . what’s wrong with him? Don’t stare, he can’t help it. Somebody kill that man. How disgusting . . . and in public. What were they talking about? Another voice respired moistened breath—an acrid meaty stench tunneling through my cranial gutters, my cognitive ducts—becoming clearer . . . familiar.

“Bobby. Bobby . . . get up.” A hot palm slapping, stinging and snapping my face, “Bobby . . . it’s me, you’re safe. You’re with me.”

It was Jessica. Jessica Lenora Summer—a fiction character in my book. “You’re not real, you are just a character I made up.”

“You silly fool . . . I am real you fucking dumbass. You’re the one not real. You are fucked up. You smoked psychoactive phencyclidine . . . PCP. Remember? You tried to kill me. You ate a bloody tampon out of the toilet and claimed you were raped by Adolf Hitler. Then you vomited all over yourself and started giggling saying you loved me . . . and wanted me to dig your eyeballs out with my fingernails. I am not a fiction character—remember? I gave you permission to use me in your story . . . we’ve been working on it for three years.”

I began feeling coherent though still confused. I asked, “I smoked PCP? Angel dust? I would never do that.”

“No you sick puppy . . . I pumped it in your nostrils with an electric gas mask bong while you were sleeping.”

“Why would you do that to me?”

“Because you treat me like I’m some kind of freak, telling people I’m not real. You are embarrassed by me. The entire reason I’m here is to be displayed . . . I want people to know who I am. I know I’m a fucking psycho—a murderous witch, but I will not be refused. I am sick of it. Do you hear me?”

She held a sledgehammer in her arms, standing on my chest—a putrid scowl engraved her stare as I pleaded, “Alright Jessica . . . please don’t hit me.”

“Hit you? I will bash your fucking skull into blood pulp. I will hit you over and over and over until your entire memory is spread across this kitchen floor—a billion times . . . until I collapse from exhaustion, arms of jello—pasting your remains into a uniform 0.5 mm thickness and burn this house to the ground. They can cook my bones in an electric chair for all I care . . . just as long as you’re dead. I will not be denied fame. I want to be the star on your blog, your book and your entire existence.”

So be it. I will start sharing exactly who these people are in my book, which will be finished before this year is up. I must tell you, the people (characters) in my book are based on real people. Much like the people in my blog soap opera, they are real too. I have an actual Hungarian family living next door who read this blog. Believe it or not, they thought it to be a good idea I write a freaking strangefest soap opera about them. Jessica Lenora Summer really is a good friend of mine. Perhaps I lied to claim she is just a fictional character—I had no idea she craved the public eye—to be a freak show exhibitionist. Here’s a message from Jessica:

I forgive Bobby for keeping me such a secret–shelved and cloaked like some kind of sickening disease capable of destroying his reputation. Like I told him, reputations are like assholes—everyone has one and they’re fallacious bullshit. Bobby’s reputation . . . don’t make me laugh. He is one twisted freak. You people have no idea what he does in private. I fully admit, I am sick . . . mentally sick, deranged and unlike anyone else. I broke the mold. I make Hannibal Lecter look like Peter Pan (I would kill that frail old man and eat his cold unsalted testicles–no respect for a nescient craven like him) and I can prove it—the difference is, I am real and I got away with it. Before all is said and done, everybody will know who I am . . . dead or alive. If Bobby disappears, you’ll know who killed him.

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