Cavewoman

My nighttime rituals always give me opportunity to think. Ponder non-sensical things. Like these things I do night after night after night after night in front of this same splattered mirror and clogged sink. A women immemorial, draped in animal skin and tearing apart a freshly hunted mammoth would split her gut laughing at me. The soft, white, practically hairless animal, like a pudgy fetal mouse, scrubbing off the blue sparkly powder caked on her eyelids. That cavewoman would take me down in a millisecond. She would fight her way through turmoil and disease, while I am going to the doctor to get my blood tested because I bruise easy. Just some wonderfully colorful splotches on my arms and legs. She would poke them and giggle. After scrubbing all the fake color off my face, I pull the covers off my eyeballs, and put covers on my teeth. I have to keep those teeth in they're beautiful, fake, altered state. I wouldn't want them to shift back into the positions where they grew naturally. What a tragedy that would be. Especially after all that money it took to fix me.

Also, as I peel the contacts from my eyes, I wonder if my art career would benefit from my lack of adequate vision. Paintings blurred, objects and landscapes indistinguishable, all with furry edges and over blended colors. I've always emulated Van Gogh. Maybe I wont have to cut my ear off, just terminally break my glasses. My eyes will be constantly burning, but maybe I might sell a painting. Or two.