Super Cactus

I woke up this morning completely naked and writhing around in a pool of blood and shattered glass on the floor. The blood was mostly mine, but only some of it I had actually bled. The rest had come from vials of blood I had on the wall.
I donate blood, I have a good type for that sort of thing. Type O negative. It has no receptors on it, the nurse says, so anyone can recieve it as a transfusion. I imagine I was lying in several hundred dollars this morning and later showered even more of it off. I can do without as much food.
Not all the glass came from the vials though, a fair bit of it came from a mirror and picture frame. The picture was also in pieces on the floor.
The night before I binged on about a million painkillers until I believed I was fucking Marie Antionette. Which is to say I thought I was having intercourse with her, not that I was her. This is why I was naked. The picture that was in pieces would be a woman if it was put together. She’s been dead for a while now.
All the money I recieve either comes from blood donation or royalties from a piece of software I developed years ago. I change it a little bit every so often so people think it’s new, but it’s been pretty much the same for seven years. It helps businesses with bookkeeping. All the money I make goes to food, bills, and a cocktail of pills. The pills take priority of course.
I ate a sandwhich and took a nap. I woke up and dropped some ecstasy. Some form of it that was allegedly more powerful than the usual crap.
Trial by jury proved these allegations true. The pills were probably laced with LSD. I blacked out and woke up standing face to face with a dead woman. I love her. As I got closer she turned into a centipede and devoured my heart. Ringo Starr sliced me in half with a sword shortly after that.
Sometime while my right half was trying to sew itself back to the left half, I blacked out again.


I woke up this morning and there was an eye on the wall. It’s just staring at me. I’m okay with this.
There was food all over my clothes and I’m not hungry, so I assume I ate. While tripping I apparently found a way to make all the hands of my clock run at the same speed, so I have no idea what time it is, nor do I care. Same goes for day, week, month, year, century, planet.
I cried for about an hour and then I tried to watch some TV. Some news report about divorce-caused suicides. I changed the channel to Tom and Jerry.
Tom and Jerry is very interesting to me. Tom is always trying to eat Jerry, but at the same time, they’re actually sort of buddies. I’m sure you know what I mean. They’re basically killing each other, but they secretly love each other and I don’t think Tom would really enjoy not having Jerry around. Even if that black woman beat the shit out of him.
I passed out with David Bowie’s “Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps) album on. “Ashes to Ashes” was playing.

I woke up this morning and the Walls are all covered with eyes now. They blink every once in a while. They’re plastic. There’s snow on the ground too. I know better than to worry about it.
The phone rings while I’m eating Captain Crunch for what might be breakfast. Crunchatize me Captain.
It’s a telemarketer. I tell him I’m too busy to buy phone service because I’m on an adventure with Captain Crunch. This, of course demands my undivided attention.
Later, I open a bottle and crunchatize myself.
I don’t remember what song was playing while I was fighting a giant squid, but I remember the words.
“Tippitoe to the flatbed father…”
I bite into a tentacle.
“‘Cause they’re pourin’ out the gasoline…”
The squid has the face of a dead girl. I love her.
“And sadly the cross-eyed bear…”
I’m desperately trying to save the squid.
“fell asleep behind the stairs…”
God fucking damn it all, she’s dying, and there’s nothing I can do.
“and his shoes are laced with irony…”
My dearest love Daria is on the operating table, dying. There is no squid. There was never a squid. I’m the surgeon.
“Hide away folk family, or else someone’s gonna getcha.”
Daria is dead. She’s dead now, she’s been dead, and she will always die. I hate you Daria, you always die. You left me alone.

I woke up tomorrow and the walls are covered with plastic eyes, there is fake hair hanging from the ceiling, and the floor is a repeating pattern of eyeless, porcelain faces. I don’t even care. Billie Holliday is singing “Gloomy Sunday” and Vivaldi’s “Winter” is also playing.
I’m screaming into a mirror. My reflection isn’t there, just Daria’s face. I smash the mirror in anger.
The lips on the floor are speaking now. They tell me I am dead. They’re lying. They’re teasing me.
A dozen cars approach me all of a sudden, and crash into me. My legs are mangled. A firefighter comes to pull me out of the burning wreckage.
“No you stupid motherfucker! Not me you fucking idiot. Don’t you fucking save me goddamn it! I’m not hurt, don’t you fucking save me!”
The bastard doesn’t listen. And so I’m okay, and the doctors fix my legs.
I don’t wake up yesterday, so I don’t need to say anything about how the house is porcelain now, and Daria was still dead then.
I’m speaking French now, while I’m fumbling with the medicine bottles.
Realisant mon espoir. Que’ce est que? Que’elle dit ce soir la. Bonjour Eiffel Tower. Te Quiero Taco Bell.
I’m so happy, I’m so happy I’m moved to tears. I’m so happy, I’m choking on my own goddamn tongue. I’m so happy there’s blood everywhere. I’m so happy, I’m kissing Daria. I hate you Daria. Now you can hate me too.
It’s all perfect and everything is beautiful. The whole house is porcelain and covered in eyes and painted lips. The hair is wondrous blonde curls. Daria had red hair. I’m sifting through the strands of red hair because I want to call the telemaketer back. Operators are standing by.
I dry to talk but my throat is filled with blood. The lips are talking. They’re calling me a coward, they’re saying I’m a bastard. I don’t care, the house is perfect now.
I struggle with the pill bottle, and sunlight shoots out when I take the lid off. Billie Holliday is still singing. Maybe it’s Sunday. Maybe the CD player is on repeat.
Lesley Gore is also singing “Maybe I Know.” She stops singing and two other guys start singing it.
I feel sick, so I take my temperature. The mercury shoots through the glass and straight into my forehead.
I feel great now.
I wake up next to Daria in a bed made out of a pink dress. Everything is so perfect, the whole house is made of porcelain and eyes and lips and cute little noses and red hair and dresses and I’m crying because it’s so perfect. It’s so perfect, and I’m turning yellow, and my stomach hurts so bad, and I’m coughing up blood and I’m crying blood and there’s blood everywhere, but that’s okay because the blood just turns into a beatiful silver and Daria is next to me and I love Daria and she’s so beautiful and we’re together and I hate her and I wish she would die, but she’s already dead and I want her back and Billie Holliday is still singing, and there’s blood everywhere, and it’s all just perfect.