Heart Attack

The amount of passion I have cannot fit in my heart. I feel it seeping out of my fingertips. Everything I touch, everyone I talk to, I know they can feel it.

We have this subleter in the downstairs apartment. She is crazy. Some people think she has schizophrenia. I'm not one to throw around these psychological terms lightly, I think they sum up things too neatly and we tend to overuse them so that they are the final answer for all problems. Drugs get overprescribed, etc. But anyway, she's crazy, that we all know. She saw my passion leaking all over the fine linoleum in our kitchen. She called me out on what I thought I had hidden. She frightens me in her directness, her astuteness for everyone but herself. Do you think she knows she's crazy? I can't talk to her because I'm afraid of what else she'll see. She's moving out soon, which is great for all of us but also makes me a little sad. I hate driving housemates out, even fucked up ones. I think she should only live with women or family, because it was the boys that made her truly crazy, her manner growing larger and more ferocious with each step and sentence, her marijuana use intensifying.

I will remember you as Master Boredom, for your refined craft and slight enjoyment of the terribly boring hole you dug for yourself. Now get a job already!


More Field Day Ideas:
Bubblegum blowing contest
Hoolahoop contest