Just Treetops
I've been waiting for the bus for two days, now. The bus stop is under water. The bus is not coming. I'm under water. I'm never leaving. There's a homeless man with a sign that proclaims the end of the world. He's floating facedown next to it and I've been laughing hysterically at him for the past hour because for God's sake, something has to be funny. It's not the end of the world. When I'm not laughing I am shivering. Shivering my teeth into bits of sugar, swallowing it. I've had plenty to drink. It could be worse. Sometimes I forget I'm in the city and think I'm on a deserted island instead. I wouldn't mind so much going back to work and making Xerox copies of everything. I wouldn't complain. God, I wouldn't complain. I won't complain anymore. I promise. Just bring the bus. I think I'm in the sea. I've tried drinking the water. It makes me shiver sugar. I've been making up stories to keep me busy. I've been writing them down in my head so I'll have something to do after I'm rescued. Write a book, maybe. About a guy whose plane crashes and so he's stuck on an island with the other passengers and he antagonizes everyone because he laughs at everything and then they eat him in the end. A plane just went by and I remembered, I'm not on a deserted island, it doesn't matter, I can't wave it down, or spell SOS somewhere because there is no sand; they're not looking for me. But they must see the city. If it is still called a city. Maybe I've been here so long (so much longer than I thought) waiting for the bus that we're just considered part of the sea and no one will see me, no one's even looking. I keep thinking I feel sharks at my feet but then I realize it's just treetops. I keep wishing they were sharks and then I'm sorry. This is the most literary situation I have been in since I lost my virginity. I have all these ideas for stories. I already said that (you have take into consideration these thoughts are coming hours apart because most of the time I am too tired trying to keep myself awake so I don't drown to have a solid thought). I will quit my job after I get out of here. Someone will find me. It's not that big of a city. I will call in sick to work. The phone will ring underwater. And I'll say sorry, I'm sick, and I'm going to start writing books so I quit, too. And people from work will appreciate my wit and buy my books and their friends will do the same and so on until I make enough money to retire but I won't retire I will keep writing. A fortune teller told me once I would be an author, even though I can't write. She also told me I would die old and content. I believed her. I still do. I'm young and almost out of my mind. To keep myself from going crazy I have been finding someone to blame. I yell at the top of my lungs, Katrina, you son of a bitch.