Warning: some words may not be appropriate for all audiences.
“The world has turned and left me here…” —Weezer
September 4th, 1995
I’ve returned . . . but I’m not sure from where. I’m simply here. . . wherever here is. I have no idea where I’m going, either. All I know is I can feel a growing rage within me—swelling and churning—like something is about to give. This is the peak before the drop. I can hear the silence. It’s deafening. I have never felt anger like this before. What is going on? I want to scream—if only to hear my voice, something familiar, something to make this real, because right now nothing seems real. But I know something is seriously wrong . . . with me . . . with my body . . . with my mind. I finally let it out.
“Fuck! You Fuckers!” Where am I? Not sure how to express my confusion without a question. Think Rage Against the Machine meets Radiohead; raw anger and confusion.
“What the fuck?” Who am I? My free-fall begins at a reckless speed. There is nothing familiar anywhere, I am lost and the panic jolts me like an electrical shock. This is not me, or at least who I was up to this point in my life.
Okay guys—joke’s over, you got me—good. Now, someone please turn the switch back on . . . you know, the one that wakes me up from this nightmare, because this is way too intense, it can’t be real.
All I can remember are profanities, very few other words. I am on guard, alert, my mind is darting back and forth with the intensity of a lightning bolt, like a frightened animal dragged from its home and suddenly dropped into a five-by-five cage. But my cage is my mind. It’s unfamiliar. Everything coming out of my mouth is belted with a foreign, unfiltered rage. Words are flowing, spewing from within me, yet I have no knowledge of where they are coming from. It’s like verbal projectile vomit. I am suffocated by the absence of any knowledge. The inner contradiction spins freely and rapidly and I feel completely off balance. My emotions are like a rollercoaster—up and down, twisting and turning. I am raging against the world.
The date is September 4th—my other birthday. Happy birthday to the best brother in the world, hooray. Sloan’s, I Can Feel It is playing on my ghetto blaster, every note flowing through my cells with a comforting familiarity. I have been in a coma now for seven days and the doctors have decided it is time for me to come back . . . And come back, I do.
I wake up spitting and babbling all the profanities I have learned over the past 22 years—like a drunken teenager who has just lost his first ‘real-love.’ My dictionary consists of eight-to-ten words. My vocabulary is crippled; the foul language is pretty much all that remains. And it is the only way I know how to express myself. They are just words to me. I don’t know what is going on. I don’t know where I am. In fact, I don’t know anything. Welcome to the new world order. Let my life begin . . . again.
Word count: 9
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