As an example, here's what happened last Friday. Part of a larger piece and feel free to give your thoughts on the writing. Can't do italics here, but it shouldn't matter that much. I don't do TL;DR, so thanks for reading or not if you don't have time.
[start]
Last weekend, it was pre-film drinks at a bar next to the theatre. I sat there, sipping a beer as my date smiled over stories from her home. The more she shared, the more I began to understand why I hadn’t made my usual attempts to sabotage the relationship before it could become anything of worth. In all the simplicity of the word, I was happy. There were no serious overtones to the emotion, just a realisation that I genuinely liked her and more importantly, liked myself when I was with her. As the rest of my mind registered and cheered on this happiness, I suddenly and uncontrollably found myself riding a bicycle in the rain.
It was a warm autumn drizzle, an under-the-porch-with-an-old-typewriter-and-a-mug-of-tea type of rain. I didn’t recognise the street the bike was rolling down, but it smelled like an easy place to call home. Except there was no evidence that anyone did call it home. There were no vehicles sitting in the driveways, no toys in the yards, no trash bags on the curb, no mailboxes waiting with their little red flags. As I pedalled, I felt overwhelmed by the idea that every house was empty, like the set of some wholesome sitcom prematurely cancelled for ignorant racism. A certain house, brown with a cream door, had me stop, throwing the bicycle under the canopy of a large oak tree. I remember running my fingers down the grooves in the door before reaching for its knob.
When I came to we were outside walking to her car. The rain had stopped. She took my hand, explaining her panicked call from my mobile to my brother as the bar steward glared. I tried to make sense of it for her, but all I could manage to do was smile through the embarrassment saying, “I’m fine, I’m fine, it just happens sometimes.” Over and over and over. We sat in her car as the picked back up, her concerned questions answered by my silent stupid grin. All my words had escaped me, like a scoop of brain-flavoured ice cream that’s fallen to the sidewalk, melting into ant food.
As we drove back to Blacksburg (we’d missed the first twenty minutes of the film), I kept grasping for an explanation that wouldn’t make me into an idiot, but I still couldn’t complete a sentence. Internally, I was outraged, helpless as I pictured my brain ripping apart like a stubborn grapefruit. The anger became so fierce, so frustrating, so fist-curling. I looked down at my clenched hand, shaking as it endeavored to choke words into the air. Then I was in a gym, standing on worn sparring mats with gloves over my hands. The walls, the equipment, and my opponent’s face were all shimmering, fighting to exist.
We began; my body worked on its own, lazily blocking. At first it was a she, my old therapist that had turned me onto boxing. But as we choreographed the duel, the shimmering intensified. I saw coworkers, friends, professors. Everyone I’d ever hit in the face, everyone I’d ever wanted to hit in the face, everyone that had ever deserved to hit me in the face, they were all flashing in front of me like a roulette wheel driven by a helicopter engine. It was too much, I dropped my left guard, and the jab belonging to the unmistakable face of my brother connected.
The engine turned off and we were parked outside my apartment, my mind only able to assume we’d somehow teleported as I reached up to rub my jaw. She wanted me to finish what I’d been trying to say for the past half hour, but the white fuzziness was still cooking my thoughts. I needed to stall, recoup, so I suggested we head inside, and we did; but even hours later, those blinding cobwebs hadn’t completely washed away. They never do until I wake up the next morning.
[end]
And don't even get me started on how narcolepsy affects sex. >.<
New game, 36 hours
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