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My father is going crazy in the room above me and I hear him shout "surfs up" as he throws a hunting knife into the television set. The colors drip down and ants gather to dress up in ceremonial delight and feast on the remains of the evening news and all the news anchors, just a puddle on the floor, just like they would have been forty-something years ago if only their fathers had pulled out. My mother screams like a child when she sees the mess and passes out from distress and my brother starts to undress as he dares what they call 'incest' and he claims it's all in jest as the ants begin to ingest the colors dripping on my mother's chest. It's beginning to look like a giallo film by this point and I'm sitting downstairs watching the earth come to a slow stop again, just like last time the circus upstairs made it's presence clear. And then I get a call, the phone rings and I pick it up and the voice on the other end sounds like a four-track recording of a pack of coyotes fucking each other while shooting up Special K. She mentions my serious addictions and my not-so-serious afflictions, and I tell her "Hey. Fuck off." while she laughs like an old lady with a trache ring and a cup of quarters who just won fifty dollars at a fruit machine on the docks of Atlantic City. I tell her to keep playing, and she plays me like a piano, hitting me in the mouth, and when she comes into contact with my teeth, they vomit a Lydian Augmented scale: C,D,E,F#,G#,A,B,C. I wish the sound coming from upstairs could sound as wonderful as my god damned teeth.