I'm trying to qualify for state disability insurance by pretending to have schizophrenia. I have an evaluation appointment next week that I need to not attend to prove that I suffer from schizophrenic avolition. I'm worried that I might forget to skip the appointment, so I've posted reminders all over my new home: an abandoned Oscar Meyer Weinermobile. It's the first of many abandoned-novelty-vehicles-cum-homes I plan on buying once I get my first disability check (I often feel like a series of real-estate purchases trapped inside a body). It may seem rather outre for a living space, but I like challenging societal norms. For instance, when strangers ask me how I'm doing instead of automatically saying "good" I tell them how I'm actually doing, although the answer is always "good" because I'm glad just to be talking to anyone.
My Weinermobile may also seem small for a residence, but it's bigger on the inside, its oblong cab a vast tunnel stretching seemingly into infinity - it's actually a spatiotemporal wormhole that can send one to any time or place in the universe. Occasionally I have an urge to wander down the tunnel and disappear into the hot-dog-shaped corridors of time, but per my simulated avolition the impulse quickly dies like the phone reception in my Weinermobile. To make the most of the rare hours I do have reception, I duct tape two phones to the sides of my head and talk to two people simultaneously, using a computer program that takes my separate messages for both parties (e.g., "I'm calling about the used Realdoll"/"Happy Mother's Day!"), breaks them down into their core words and phrases, and for each pair of words or phrases finds a word or phrase somewhere in between - for example, black/white = gray, man/amazing = Nas, left jaw of vice/right jaw of vice = my head, tonight, filled with valium and regret.
When I can't use the phone, I handle most of my correspondence through the mail. Last week I sent a letter addressed to "the world" saying "Have fun being alive while other people are dying," to which I got a reply saying "Have fun dying while other people are alive." I know that the NSA agents who read everyone's mail just sent the letter as reverse-psychology to try and cheer me up, but I still found it depressing.
The Weinermobile is haunted by the ghost of a Hotdogger who crashed it in a tragic accident that killed thousands of people. This is more or less the plot of the 1990 film The Sleeping Car, which the ghost often adds to my Netflix queue as a form of self-reference, like that ubiquitous picture of a hot dog eating its own tail. The movie works well as an ambient film while I'm pacing around my room trying to figure out when my life went so horribly wrong, so I can take a forgetting pill for everything prior to that moment and relieve myself of all the painful joyous memories that make my current life seem so miserable by comparison. I wish there were some way to physically destroy my halcyon days, but until scientists invent a reverse-overdose-of-Tramadol that kills your past instead of your future, erasing their memory is the best I can do.
It'd be great if morbid regret, or other problems I'm intimately familiar with, like owning a lonely heart, and too much booty in the pants, qualified one for disability, but such things are determined by the American Medical Association, which in addition to being a stifling bureaucracy also treats the human body like a machine, and tries to fix it the same way most laypeople try to fix machines, by turning it off and on repeatedly using a combination of heart-stopping drugs and resuscitation.
Sometimes I get so distraught in my worried pacing that I forget its critical back-and-forth component and end up pacing linearly through the time tunnel all the way back to the big bang, where my body is atomized instantly. I realize that this isn't a problem most people can relate to, which makes me feel even more distal from the human race, even though my atoms scattered across the universe are literally the building blocks of all life.
As its title suggests, The Sleeping Car also works well as a sleep aid, except for the ending, which is a special effects tour de force full of bright flashing colors that necessitates one of those sleep blindfolds. Mine says "Tease" on it because I bought it at an S&M shop. Sometimes I forget to take it off and wear it around my neck to my job at Subway, where it's basically a tautology since everyone there already teases me.
The kitchen at Subway has an L-shaped section of floor that workers informally call "the L" and a section of floor shaped like a deformed labia that we informally call "the deformed labia." My female manager doesn't call it that, of course - at least not around me, because we don't talk enough to be on informal terms.
Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the Weinermobile while it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again. At the end of the dream the Weinermobile reconciles with the ghost driver and they have sex, since the driver is a metrosexual - a person attracted to subway trains, and other train-shaped vehicles.
There's a scene in The Sleeping Car where a ghost pretending to be a female phone sex operator telekinetically binds a man to a bed. My fake schizophrenic anhedonia makes this scene extremely difficult to masturbate to; I've even tried imagining that I'm the woman, or both the man and the woman at the same time - a scenario that leads to awkwardness when both characters, since they're technically me, are able to read each others' thoughts: the woman realizes that the man's lust is actually a sublimated pain, forged on lonely nights spent watching porn on his 40-inch flatscreen TV, which he mounted on the ceiling over his bed to facilitate masturbating, even though he knows it's just a matter of time before the TV falls on him and kills him, a fact he's been coping with by watching porn about accepting death, like a movie where a woman has sex with five men representing Kubler-Ross's five stages of grief; while the man realizes that the woman just views him as another asshole client and wants to drain his wallet, followed by his blood, because she's actually a ghost.
What is the world searching for when it wants porn? The stats will blow your mind.
it's hard to shake the feeling that I've always got five stars in this Grand Theft Auto known as life.
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