The Schmalle Cocaine Test

Pulling out Rembrant's from cereal boxes

I’m still coughing up Halloween as I sip on psychosis so don’t confuse me with facts, my mind has been made because my altruistic fingers fidget with the bristles of my brush and I stare at a blank canvas while my dog, Dory, scratches at the door indicating that she is hungry and in return I carefully drop 27 dog food pellets into her bowl and warn her that she can’t swim for the next 30 minutes, and later, I make one final detour towards my fridge and chug 800 milliliters from my pitcher of In-N-Out water - the only water I consume with apples, hats, and birds for breakfast and I strap paint cans to my torso and look into a white flask then take crunchy bites from it, flask and all, while deciphering what the bottom says: They say you can’t solve a problem with the same mind that created it. Enjoy.

‘Step right up folks! Don’t be shy!’ bellows out a human with bizarre attire to a line that is empty, except for me, and I accept by silence so I see an amusement park, with pleasant music and great smells spiralled up to a sky that is inevitable and college note pages dividing in the breeze, as if camouflaged by nothing more than a blend of greens, blues, and yellows coating the physical construction of this place and a welcome sign reading, “The Schmalle Cocaine Test”; I’m in some sort of psychological amusement park who thrives on entrapment via Christmas Eve, New year’s Eve, and naïve that’s explained by my footsteps taking me past a group of children playing with emotions and finding it odd how toys have changed since I was younger because statistically, I’ll meet the love of my life 7 times throughout my lifetime and not notice my paint cans leaking or how I’m advancing to a carbon lifeform similar to my species and apologetically informing her of my delusional right to be stupid, along with the leaking paint cans.

‘Oh sorry, hun. Robert’s the fella who handles these messes and he only communicates by fax. You don’t happen to have a fax machine on you by any chance?’ It’s no use so I let the paint continue to leak and bet on black independent clauses, judiciary clauses, & Santa Claus’ that lie for egoism, benevolence, or utility but never truly know which one until you see a gentleman getting paid to smile offering you some complimentary In-N-Out water and an application to join the Jim Jones cult and here I am feeling this way while 3D glasses are being placed on my face and I laugh at marine wolves playing with matches because the cure is worse than the disease but humans exaggerate reality and miss out on things like bendy straws and the Spanish Inquisition to help explain why we need bad moments in our lives just as much as we need good ones and maybe the music scratches and wiggles into chords of collateral without us knowing.

Sometimes life is like a multiple choice test from hell or like this paint that’s flooding to my ankles, hushing the sounds of an unconscious group of belly buttons simultaneously laughing at the punchline PARANOIA so much to the point that you never liked me, just exploited me like a band with a business license or someone who doesn’t have time to tell the truth but likes switching ego states more than once and is bemused at the cheesy jokes they say on Hollywood Squares that let’s us get familiar, let’s us get familiar with passing the English muffins down the table and trying not to forget our father’s birthday again and eventually noticing that future events are not facts, and mistaken beliefs tell me that the most intimate person in my life was once a stranger and I need to get out somehow while avoiding the front door and trying the windows, chimneys, and tunnels beneath the house because if I like any of them, they have a 30 day return policy.

Like medicine balls floating on half-eaten root beer floats, taxidermists are cheap nowadays and distinct bristles hand me letters from pen pals I never had and my mind is leaking paint while electricity dives through holes no bigger than a speeding ticket or a “>” sign and the toxic molecules petition for a better Tae-Kwon-Do class like the one’s on television that let you lie and play Tetris on early 2000’s cellular phones not because they have to, but because they want to and by the end of the day, we won’t have anything in common anymore and we’ll just have to listen to an orchestra of salt shakers performing for humans like me and cats with Ebola.

Dory scratches at the door again because she finished her food and wants more which lets me notice my brushes are withered and my canvas is no longer blank and I smirk at the masterpiece I’ve created and then rub my paint-drenched hands on my pants so I don’t get any paint on Dory’s food.

Author's Note

ignore grammar problems, what do you think of the dialogue, etc.

Reviews

[Rana]

Oh I love how you ended this, Gaston! Hmm, a flow so perfect, must have been a challenge to execute without the periods. It reminded me of what I had read somewhere: the brain prefers short sentences although it reads long sentences faster, taking relatively less time. And now I know that it's true. No speed bumps, and also, this has a really cool kind of flow, a detached-but-connected kind of flow. Funny and fun. Lovely and lively! And it was great to meet Dory again, haha. Some remarkable things to watch through the window would be: the marine wolves, sipping on psychosis, a psychological amusement park (I wish it really did exist), children playing with emotions, the leaking paint can metaphor, orchestra of salt shakers. I feel it was like a plane ride, taking off from a runway of reality, flying in a surreal sky and landing back on to real grounds, it was so satisfying. Love it :)

[Gaston Villanueva]

Thank you!
I didn't do cocaine, but I tried writing as if I had which is why I limited the pauses haha
I look forward to reading more of your writing!

[Rana]

Ah, that explains it =) Gaston, you're full of cool ideas =D