|
Prozac Vs. Picante On My Pajamas
by D. Cashon Klein
I have salsa stains on my pajamas. These are the Rorschach stains of my life. They are mostly right between my breasts because that’s where I hover the dipped chip when I yell at the newspaper article I’m reading, or the TV show I’m watching, or the soon-to-be ex-friend I’m arguing with on the phone.
Chips and salsa are my cigarettes. I used to gesture beautifully with a cigarette. I could make points stick by punctuating my opinion with a jab of my cigarette. But I quit that nasty habit. The stains were too dangerous, too combustible.
I prefer blue corn chips; hold the transfat, and hot, (not mild, not medium, but hot) salsa. When I say hot I mean pieces of flesh fall away from the inside of my mouth hot. I mean 5-star-Thai-keep-the-water-coming hot. (Although milk actually works better to assuage the burn.) The more I sweat, my eyes tear and my lips swell, the more sated I am. It is this hot that brings me solace.
All of the Prozac, Wellbutrin, Buspar and Zoloft that I’ve been prescribed and ingested can’t seem to bring my seratonin levels up to par like a good dose of chips and salsa, though admittedly, it is a short-lived ecstasy.
These binges occur at the end of the day when
all of the things that weigh heavily on my mind start to settle in...
the bills, hurricanes, George Bush, ignorant people, (redundant),
football, fast cars and many more. These thoughts creep in, get
comfortable and begin an evening of torment. My stomach pulls up a seat
on the sidelines and roots for my psyche to overcome these antagonists
so it doesn’t have to suffer the pain of a loss, or a gain, as the case
may be.
That’s when I bust open a bag and screw the cap
off of a carefully balanced jar of extra hot picante, with a dash of
Tabasco thrown in for good measure. That’s when the gesticulating
begins. That’s when the sauce flies.
I do laundry on Saturday, starting from the
bottom of the bag. I can tell which days were good, which were so-so,
and which were just plain bad. Sunday, well, there’s barely a stain at
all, not counting the old ones. But just look at Monday! That was the
day the idiot in the Mazda (zoom-zoom) careened around the corner at
the end of my sleepy, little street, (as he always does every weekday
at a quarter to eight), almost hitting me, a cat and a few parked cars,
while he talked on his cell phone and dangled a cigarette out of the
window with his other hand. (what’s he driving with? Surely not the
appendage he is overcompensating for!)
Tuesday the news held more news of killing and
chaos for testosterone’s sake and the usual stupid people who torture
animals for fun or lack of a clue. Or was that Monday…?
Wednesday may have been the day that co-workers
told me that politics were not an acceptable topic of conversation, but
good rates at Disney were and everyone was abuzz about the upcoming
Bucs game and who killed Jon Benet. That was the day I posted one of my
favorite lines at my desk. It’s from Les Miserables. “If I speak I am
condemned. If I stay silent I am damned.” The days and their offerings
dragged along and I cursed myself for wishing them over, because after
all, I’m only rushing death and the thought of death is a huge catalyst
for huge stains.
So I Shout! the misery out on laundry day,
leaving shadows of my former self. Maybe I’ll donate my body to science
when this is all over. My stomach has held up surprisingly well
considering what I put it through. I’ve decided that the next pajamas I
buy are going to be black, or better yet, maybe I just won’t wear any.
At the rate I’m going, and the world is going,
the stains are probably going to accelerate. It would probably be more
efficient to just sit on a plastic sheet and hose the whole mess down
the drain, leaving a clean slate for the next day after the jerk at the
cafeteria register laughs and says, “I’m not going to give you your
change until you smile, c’mon now, smile. Let me see those pearly
whites! You want your change don’tcha?” I will smile wide enough, in
due time, to shove a chip with salsa into my mouth.
Keep the change.
Debbie Cashon Klein is a Safety Harbor resident.
|
Front Page 
Humor 
