Dear Diary [sic]

unedited journal page.

To D.F. Wallace (R.I.P)

Another Day At the Crematorium

We decided since we were left alone at work today to drink codeine baths to help the day along. Sometimes you need a hand to move the days here.
My colleague surprised me at how easily a person could get saccharinely dusted off of an over the counter bottle of 222’s (dosage being around 510mgs of caffeine to 272mgs of codeine that we dissolved effortlessly in cold water and passed through a coffee filter). It tasted like poison. The coming on was gradual and at first I rushed, enjoying the pummeling fuzz through my frame while we talked about Once Upon a Time in the West. But later as my body started to register 3 hours sleep last night, and no food at all, things took a turn.
I didn’t feel right, sat reeling while bodily functions recoiled in horror at the total, thorough sickening sink that crashed in, rolled back and washed away at my sands.
I watched the sun through the window from my spring-backed office chair reflect off the pale stone mausoleum looking out over the cemetery.
I told Jorges that I needed to lie down as I stumbled up.
“Yeah dude…you’ve dipped a couple shades…”
I went into the room for families to witness their loved one’s cremation. It had a small, cheap, white floral patterned sofa. Laying down with my eyes closed brought on caffeined-up opiate daymares. I dozed for a minute and then another minute. I jerked awake. I jerked awake again. I got up. I sat down hard. I stood up again, nothing felt okay. The weight of my own head lead me stumbling in a semi-run back to the main office where Jorges was researching an essay on pants size reflecting the relationship between boys and their fathers.
He suggested a gravol to settle my stomach and as I threw it back I noticed the water bottle I was using was empty. My mouth was so pasty that the pill stuck onto my tongue like it wasn’t going anywhere. I tried to force swallow it several failing times. I felt the flat orangy coating coming off as it sat on my tongue and I felt the works stir inside of me.
I had time to turn 180 degrees and step twice. Bent over a desk I bucked harder than I maybe ever have in my entire life, no bullshit. My frame rung itself out in rampant snake bite twists, forced convulsions, water bursting forth in an unmeandering confession. It forced hard BLEHHHH screams, the slowed down whinnies of a wild, trapped horse.
“Smells like stomach in here dude…”
That afternoon, it took me a long time to get all the puke out of my moustache.