The words were haunting me last night. They became the sounds of flickering television of an empty channel at volume thirteen. I tried not to think about it. I tried shaking them off by inhaling nicotine and prayed it’ll cloud my head instead. Still, it was to no avail. Even when I tried chanting Ashlee Simpson’s Outta My Head, the sounds of the flickering television still hungrily occupied my head like it was free permanent advertising space. It was like watching hissing monochrome pixels for thirteen days. Thirteen days of hell in one.
Yeah, I know, it is all just a phase. And in this phase, I have a confession to make. I have also only gotten halfway back to sane. And I’m dead serious. I need a counselor. I’ll counsel my own soul behind that white hollow tree. But don’t feel sorry for me.