Claustrophobic
Behind every day of uncontrollable laughter, there are at least five days of claustrophobia (thank you, Sean Penn). My four walls are composed of concrete and tremor-proof steel beams--narrow streets of people, walking and riding bicycles and mopeds; an impending fear that one day I will become a primate in a laboratory where the daily slayings of my own siblings, parents, and children do not register on my face: the doctors in charge of the experiments (for vaccinations, hair care products, etc.) let me out long enough to allow me to examine the lifeless bodies, then record that I simply lose interest and walk away expressionless--after nudging the corpses to no avail. I can see barely legible characters on a data sheet hanging from the clipboard across the room from my cage--they spell "NO MEMORY", and "NO TEARS". "Soulless perhaps".
Daniel McCoy's Blog
To everybody reading this blog:
Have a look at my boy Danny's blog too, I wish you would.
Yes, this has been a plug for a blog.
Uncontrollable Laughter
Today, I am the star of my own show. Things keep making me laugh. I haven't stopped laughing since I woke up this morning from a hilarious dream. It was one where I was playing tennis with Richard Brooks, former Law & Order actor. He taught me the key to acting in a leading role, but I don't remember what he said, and it will never come back to me, but I don't care--'cause I had such a great time, and can't stop laughing. I talk to random people and call them "sir" and "ma'am", but they don't know what it means, nor do I even mean it. It takes so much energy to say it without laughing in their fucking faces, so I just laugh when I'm turned away from them. Yeah, people notice I'm laughing but try hard not to get caught staring, so they pay little attention to me. And this makes me laugh too. And I probably smell as well.