There aren't enough drugs to make me feel better.


Two guys in their early thirties are crossing Larchmont slightly behind me. I catch a glimpse of baseball caps and shorts. Fresh, round faces. "Maybe the guy doesn't have to kill anybody!" I want to turn around...
"It's his character! He's the Time Killer!"
I forgot! Kids! They just need to go around the wheel a few times.

There's a saying in Hollywood... But somebody stole it and turned it into a sitcom.

4/24/01....4:24 am

They've been "the P's" for a long time. Kid shorthand for "Our parents." Or "mom and Dad." As more of us became moms and dads, it was simpler to refer to them as "the p's." My daughter and a couple of my nieces are shocked that we refer to their grandparents like that. How rude. How disrespectful.

I almost can't do this. I haven't slept much in days. Ostensibly trying to finish up work, but the real reason is that I can't breathe. My breathing is slow. A few moments ago I thought someone was in the house, but it was just my breathing. A distant rumbling, creaking sound. Floorboards. I feel like I have a huge foot on my chest.

I have to stop myself from thinking about my father, or I just burst into tears. And the foot gets heavier. I have to keep it together for two more days. Two more days of acting normal. Two more days of pleasantries and smiles. And occasional thoughts like, "Get out of my way, you asshole! Don't you fucking know my father is dying?" I've told some people. Close friends. And sometimes it slips. Or I'll cautiously tell someone. I don't want it to be an excuse for anything.

I've started up with two vices again. Eating, drinking, and watching television. Three things. I'd forgotten the eating. But when I can eat, it's all crap. Oreos, pizza. Although I have had two big salads in the last two days. Some part of me trying not to self-destruct. But I let television blot out sections of my day. Falsely cheering or caring for millionaires playing tackle basketball. The drinking... I can't afford to really drink, to drink the way I know would make me pass out and blot out even more of my day. So, I have a glass of wine, or a beer. And if anything, I get weaker, and more sentimental. Only I yell instead of burst into tears. Or I yell first. At the television, just before I turn it off. When the stupidity is so awful that... it doesn't even serve as white noise. Hmmm... I lost myself there. My sister asked me if this was going to make her a grown-up. What do I know? Not yet. I'm just a guy with a shoe on my chest.

I have to go see my mother and father.

Not the P's.

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