- The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
- Hanging with the Goon
- The Consummate Politician Apologizes
- Rating the WWE's Roster by Their Stench
- The Esteemed Critic's Multiple Sentence Reviews
- Conan Brothers' Q&A
- Theme Park Mistress
- Hillsdale Paranormal Society
- Writer's Block
- Select Farmers Only Profiles
Monday, September 5, 2016
The Diary of Mitch R. Singer
In my bed, caught in a fugue state
Sometimes sleep never comes. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadow shapes melt together to form dark blotches of nothingness. You can project your hopes and dreams into them, the shadow shapes. Often they refuse to transform into anything recognizable, which is the worst. I try to think back about my life, try to will the memories into being. Nothing comes but spilled ink. Every so often I'll have a fragment burst into my brain with disturbing brilliantness, a bit of color livening up a life of blacks and greys. I had a purpose. There was someone else lying in between these sheets.
Pacing the halls, staring out of windows into the night
There's an interdimensional horror to it all, walking the house at night. I see things hiding behind corners, crouching in alcoves, little monsters that I've dragged with me from some netherworld, just as out of place as myself. What can I say to them? They won't listen to reason, reason being as foreign to them as it is to us in this place. They exist according to other rules. Maybe I'm more like them than I imagined. Maybe that's why I cannot sleep.
In the kitchen
There are more spiders in my house than I can count. I am no arachnid expert, but I give them my own names. Little balls of legs and eyes scurrying underneath the refrigerator, lowering themselves from ceilings--I just stare and shrug. Who cares if they take over this place? I don't. Down in the basement I hear it moving about, the heavy click-clack of its legs reverberating through the thin boards of the floor. Without memory, I know it. There is an unspoken deal between it and I. Sometimes people go into the basement. They don't come out. In exchange I am allowed to roam about, my guilt lost with my identity, adrift in an alien sea. This is just a temporary gig, however. There are other worlds than these.