Of Mimesis

I regret having to post this on the mirror, but someone’s dog keeps depositing their material in the handicapped parking spot which—since the unfortunate “ultimate fighting” match during last year’s annual potluck, at which I lost partial rotation of my left hip—is primarily used by myself and my ailing grandmother. Lou has apologized profusely, and I’m not trying to bring up a touchy subject; I’m just saying because I’m technically handicapped now, I really need that parking space to be shit-free.

As for my grandmother, and whether or not she is a legal resident, all I can say is I’m a tax paying resident alien just like anyone else, and if I want to provide amnesty to a political assassin (who happens to by my grandmother), then that is a liberty I shall take upon myself; and if this political assassin tried to assassinate the man who broke her grandson’s left hip at the community potluck, then gosh, I’m sorry.

The last reminder of this nature was torn down, soaked in what I’m presuming to be human saliva until reduced to its pulp-like incipient form, and thrown at my car’s windshield. That is why this notice is sealed in a polypropylene sheet protector. If you are upset by these notices, there are better ways to communicate. You could write your own notices and post them on this mirror as well. This could very easily grow into an exquisite corpse dialog between members of the Clayton Community Center, which, I know, is really the nurse’s board at the psychiatric ward.

I will be the first to admit that my grandmother is not a political assassin; that I have full capacity of my left hip; that “Lou” does not exist; that I am “schizophrenic” and “severely delusional.” Yes, I am receptive to academic jargon as much as the next person, but may I ask all you lovely people a crazy question? How come these notices keep on disappearing? They say energy is neither created nor destroyed, but merely transferred (in a hypothetical hermetic system, of course). Well, I have a feeling that these hypothetically hermetic nurses are transferring my daily notices to a large spit-filled bucket.

The “Clayton Community Center,” as conceptual as it may be, is imperative for someone in my shoes, or more specifically, someone in my straps. The mashed potato and tapioca diet lost its allure within the first week of my overdue stay. My parents, who deposited their own “piece of shit” here long ago, are far away in some beige box they call a mortgage. For every nurse’s pensive smile, there is a handjob that will never happen. One is tempted to take one’s life with a quick mirror shard to the jugular, if only these mirrors were real. For example, the man smiling on the other side looks nothing like me.