I am crouching, kneeling, curled up on the ground. Gingerly, my head to the floor. My hat falls off and spills the beer. Everyone but me notices. Drags of his cigarette while my tangled hair meets the arms of wind. I am here for one reason alone and that is to keep my mind busy. Wandering aimlessly through the fuzzy tunnels in my vision. I am not getting good reception in here, no. That's why your hands are so warm, Megan, and I lay down on someone's bed to keep my head from falling off. There's Palahniuk on the table. I'm crying again and I'm hiding under the bed and I'm talking to the cats and I'm behind you, whispering warnings in your ear. This generally happens a few times every week. My silhouette is becoming dull and I think you've noticed. I hate being touched and I hate wishing you would. I speak to the willing and I associate with the desperate. I am hanging off the balcony with smoke floating around my head and my leg twisted around the bars. Things like: Oh, I am a cobra. Try not to smile my way. I will constrict. I am wound too tightly and when I shift, you'll feel it hard against your ribcage