He always pissed in water or beer bottles at night because he didn’t want to have to walk to the bathroom and turn on the seizure-prone light or flush the abnormally loud toilet. He couldn’t risk looking at himself. Sometimes the bottle’s opening would be the wrong size and he’d leak some piss onto the floor or onto the laptop that he usually left closed on the floor next to his bed. He never wiped the droplets, and instead let them calcify on the laptop’s black mottled plastic until they looked like leopard patterns in a photograph negative. In the mornings, alone, he’d roll over and study the exotic constellations. And though they never could portend what luck – good or ill – might be loosed upon him during the day, they were always a reminder that somewhere in the confines of that stained box (waiting for him in electronic slumber) was a part of his own pixilated menagerie, something that might be described as resembling a life: favorited images of girls and boys from red states with low self-esteem and high resale value, unchecked emails offering discounts for “Delicious Deals” and “More Sparkly & Sweet Surpises ,” a six-month-old OkCupid message from someone named drtybrklyngrl who claimed to have fellated several middle-of-the-road literary personalities and who described herself as “intentionally blurry.” His territory. He needed to feel like he was having “moments.” It wasn’t the worst way to wake up.
published 9 June 2013