I lied before. The truth is I didn’t forget Ali’s name. I can’t forget her name, her face, or her smell. I try these little games to make myself forget, somehow thinking I can reset myself. I hold the button in for ten seconds and make the light go off. When the light comes back on, it is all still there, nothing is forgotten. The Jedi mind tricks might work on a Stormtrooper at the Mos Eisley Cantina, but they do not work on yourself.
I’ve tried the drowning myself in copious amounts of booze. I know it’s cliché, hell, even tried a few drugs here and there. I’m more of a booze guy. It’s a vice I’m comfortable with. I know how I am going to feel, act, and react on it. Drugs are always too unpredictable. When I drink to be upset, I get upset. When I drink to wallow, I fucking wallow. When I drink to be happy, I’m damn happy. I took a few Percocets after some weed, and Dali’s Elephants ate me, those long-legged suckers. Well, just one of them ate me. The painting has two elephants. It was fucking terrifying. I was actually eaten whole, still alive in the belly of the long-legged elephant. I’m then sitting, waiting, waiting to be born. Do you know the gestation period of an elephant? Well, it’s more than twice that of humans. So, I’m in a uterine prison for almost two years. Fucking terrifying. I drink too much whiskey; make bad decisions, pass out, throw up, and wake up with a headache. I’m sure I could learn to love my new elephant mother, but whiskey seems easier.
I assume it all means something, the long-legged elephant thing. I’m dead. I’m reborn. I’m in a cycle of constructing myself and then deconstructing myself. I’m not a shrink, but that’s what I am going with. My conscious mind would go with a taken apart Rubik’s Cube, but my subconscious is using Dali. I guess that makes sense, Dali seems more subconscious. Maybe the subconscious should have used the warped clocks over the elephants, but now I’m just nitpicking. I like The Persistence of Memory better than the elephants, probably since the clocks have never consumed me. Perhaps I should stop the self-diagnosis and go see a trained mental health professional.
I hear people describe beauty by saying, “She has the face of an angel.” I see what they are getting at, but I’ve never seen an angel. It really doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve seen depictions of angels and Ali is much hotter than that. She has a face better than an angel. I lied before. I didn’t forget. The elephants, they thankfully come and go. The whiskey comes and goes. She does not. She’s in there. There’s no getting rid of her.