My head isn’t screwed on right today. I’m whirly. I’m flying a plane around this room, and these birds are circling me. I want to twist my head off and throw a blanket over it, hide it in the corner, while little Alans go on an expedition into my decapitated body. They’ll wear little head lights, and when they explore enough, they’ll say, “It’s so simple. The fucking red wire is connected to the blue wire.” Their leader, an Alan with a thick mustache, will phone to headquarters, to Boss Alan. “Boss, let’s just connect the red to the red!” But that Alan is bureaucratic. You can tell because he wears a tie. He’ll say something like, “NO. We have to tear it all down. Tear it all down and rebuild! For taxes purposes.”
You ever put yourself together? I feel like that’s living. I’m the pinnacle of me. I’m the epitome. Nah, your head’s screwed on weird. Break it all down. Build it back up like the pyramids. There’s a slave in me to the process. The dreamer says, “Build it better! Build it with a little less depression.” “NO! We need that! That’s fucking what it means to be Alan,” said the Depression Lobbyist. “What?! Who let this guy in? How did you get in here? Security!”
“Ha ha! It’s too late. I’ve already added it to the blueprints. And you know what? I mixed up all the papers so you can’t find it.”
My head is in the clouds. I feel light like vapors. I don’t need drugs to be this high. Not when you got crazy in your jeans. Here I am in my corner, raving mad. I’ll throw my voice into this endless stream of lunatics. BAB BAB BABBLE.
The room is spinning. My head is spinning. I am excellent. Today was excellent.