thesarahscope

I am Alice, and I have gone down the hole. It’s amazing how a diagnosis is a little pill you swallow, and you now have a brief moment of clarity to observe clearly how ridiculous your hobbies are to the impartial observer. Alice grew taller and taller, and all I got was an eye to the peephole to see a mass grave of sacrificial time. Medicine helps, but there are several symptoms in the stall it hasn’t broken, yet. They are your prizewinning, frothy and kicking at the sides of the stable, bizarre purebred quirks, and they are notoriously hard to break.

I have currently offered up three days and counting to adding songs to playlists. Let me help you unpack that—I have a Spotify account, and it has playlists that became traps that snapped and caught my unstable mind. The playlists somewhere along the way ceased to be playlists. They have wonderfully inspired titles like “Nights Like Jazz”, “G-Spot Wild” (what, you don’t have a playlist to work one out to?), and “Sad Bastard.” I rabbit holed from one artist to another through the button “Similar Artists”, and now, I listen to songs for a minute a piece, and if they sound promising, I add them to all my playlists. I don’t mind the titles that much, or at all, so that you may one day be having a helluva good cry over the murder of a bird in your back yard by a feral cat while listening to “Sad Bastard”, and all of a sudden, you’ll hear The Jackson 5’s “I Want You Back”. It’s even more alarming when you’ve almost reached orgasm, and a gospel hymn pours into the room at that moment, helping you reach immediate post climax disgust with yourself.

You realize that friends following you have, perhaps, too intimate a view into your life, but you’ve always lived your life this way. You don’t have it in you to change, and besides, you’re too busy concentrating on homework to help improve your listening skills and tidal wave anger. Anyway, it is now day 3 of cataloging music, and you don’t know how to stop. If you are still working on your “project” as they are known to yourself, your family, and your doctors on August 11th, you will ask her if she has any tips. Is there a patch you can wear or a gum you can chew?

People tell you that they love your characteristic of blatant honesty, brashness. You are aware that they really love that your train wrecks are circus like affairs that usher in rubberneckers with the promise of not blurring out any of the gore. There are no nets under your trapezes, and the lions haven’t been fed for weeks. They don’t know that it doesn’t matter to you because you won’t remember any of it in a couple of days. Your medicine coupled with your frenzied anxiety in the moment will have you looking back and having a vague recollection of the conversation.

There are moments of terror sitting in your every day wherein you lied to be able to slide under the radar. You don't lie about important things, but there are multiple hairdressers who think you’re a Republican. It’s just easier some days. You’re not going to talk politics while getting a shampoo. Who knew that the beauty school churned out an abundance of conservatives who are experts at a razored pixie cut? While they mixed dye in handheld bowls did they discuss the layabouts on welfare? Did they graduate with a certificate to be placed on their mirrors and a penchant for Fox News?

Well, I’ll end this now because it’s jazz hour, and I’ve got a couple hundred songs to add to a playlist.