Soma Holiday

I walked to work today, down South Broad and I am furthermore convinced that apocalypse is imminent.

I’m particularly hypersensitive today compliments of Tylenol Cold, which I hope harnesses enough witchdoctor power to cure the Bubonic plague plus tuberculosis. I think I accidently took the nighttime soma (blue). I’m feeling a bit drowsy.

Soma: “All the advantages of Christianity and alcohol; none of their defects”

A police car, with sirens ablaze, swerves to cut off traffic and a procession of maybe half a dozen vans pass. There’s a fire truck; a police truck; a Jelly Belly van painted to advertise their beans for cyclists, honking; a Commerce Bank van with four hands peeping out from the back seat, each with a Commerce-painted cowbell, further adding to the Chaos Procession.

Soma: "The policemen pushed him out of the way and got on with their work. Three men with spraying machines buckled to their shoulders pumped thick clouds of soma vapour into the air."

I think about stopping at Commerce to take out cash for the weekend, but upon nearing I see a DJ in front, blaring Gloria Estefan. I’ll pay the $2 ATM fee on campus,

and I’m switching my bank tomorrow.

I’m wearing my highest high heels. My center of balance is too high. I’m too high. I thought once heels would be comparable to horse shoes, the same clippity clop, but they’re not at all. Surely one cannot gallop in spikes that get stuck in concrete cracks.

I’m watching my feet, or rather, I’m watching my shoes, until a man obstructs my path. He’s wearing a purple fleece, though it’s 80 degrees. His hair is matted. He doesn’t blink. His hairy flat man-feet are crammed in women’s shoes. [My feet are crammed in women’s shoes. I can’t blink.]

Soma: "the warm, the richly coloured, the infinitely friendly world of soma-holiday. How kind, how good-looking, how delightfully amusing every one was! "

There’s an overweight woman sleeping with her eyes open (or at least I hope she’s sleeping) on a cardboard box. In front of her she has an orange, a triangle of sliced bread, and a coffee can full of coffee. Or what I thought was coffee until I saw the floating cigarette butt.

Nearly 9,000 children will be diagnosed with cancer this year. Buy this lemonade.

Soma: "A gramme is better than a damn," said Lenina mechanically from behind her hands. "I wish I had my soma!" "

William Sonoma is charging $300 for their Artisan buttercup-yellow mixer. I got the man, now I need the mixer. I want to bake cakes, all day, every day. I want to be flour dusted, Victorian. My darling, how was work? How I’ve missed you so! Oh how I love you so!


''Hug me till you drug me, honey;

Kiss me till I'm in a coma;

Hug me, honey, snuggly bunny;

Love's as good as soma."

[good afternoon, Bea. I’m good and you?] I snag an orange juice on my way in, made from oranges from Brazil. I’ve never been, but I hear it’s lovely. It’s 100% pure God-made juice but it burns like hell going down, its acidity stinging my throat coughed raw. A coughing fit commences and I feel my face flush with blood that somehow isn’t oxygenated enough despite all these gasps for breath. It’s been five hours. Tylenol Cold Daytime dose 2 administered.

Soma: “Was and will make me ill, I take a gram and only am."

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