Auto-biographical Narative Prose

Saturday thoughts of a Bingo Caller

I realize that I wrote "I was hypnotized by the sound of my own voice" on my hand. This is true. I may have fallen asleep at the helm tonight. I can't recall. I almost awarded someone $5000 that they didn't win. Thank goodness for the helpful volunteer. I spaced for a good 30 seconds or so, but it felt longer. My brain was asleep and reluctant to wake. Gossamer threads held me to the dream I was in. Queen Mab refused to release me from her walnut shell and I was unwilling to abandon this trance. My eyes bulged with the effort to stay awake and alert. I couldn't read simple numbers and would stare at them for several seconds before they clicked into place. Instead I assigned them personalities based on how they made me feel.

43 is authoritarian
33 is cute as buttons
Sinister 6
Erotic 57
awkward 34
backstage 70
and naziesque 44

I feel chilled and warm at once. Why does the fat lady put her coat on? Has she won the game? Is she leaving? Or is she cold?

On the break I have no one to call, so I read Shopgirl and get a song stuck in my head.

I want to spell out obscenities on the scoreboard. See how they take it.

I see the pretty girl with the christmas flower painted on her cheek. I can't remember the name. The red one. Why am I worried that it conceals a bruise? I barely know her.

The game ends. Turn on the music. Get them out. I become aware of the throbbing pain in my right ankle. How long has that been going on? I'm forced to walk with a slight limp. I turn off the tv's.

I feel dangerous, like I shouldn't be allowed to drive home but I get in the car anyway. I put on Matt Foy's CD and play "Awoo" and "Otis Bagotis" and smile. Then I play "Room on the Floor" and it makes me think of Brendan Beamish and Morgan Vanek. People you've never heard of. People I don't hear of anymore, and I feel sad.

I drive home and take my puppy outside. The poor thing is bursting. Luckily she's been good, though I dread the posibilities that my hundreds of dollars of new school books will be in tatters. They aren't, and I pat her.

Ba baaa
This is the sound of settling

I'm supposed to have a sleepover with Stephie, but I feel too weird. I'm afraid that I'll act distant and ridiculous and it will make her worry. I feel.... ugly inside. I don't want her to see that ugliness. I actually write her a note that says I wasn't able to wake her and I'll just see her in the morning and I have a struggle over whether or not I should leave it for her. I decide that's a stupid thing to do, but she solves my problem by being unrousable anyway. So I leave the note and write this. I put on the Garden State soundtrack and think. My ankle throbs and my head burns. It feels like my brain is trying to force it's way out the top of my head.

I've got a hunger
twisting my stomach into knots

I worry.

I worry a lot.

I turn on messanger and turn it off again.

I feel like crying. Like sobbing on the bed with M'Bear to comfort me.

I don't know why I feel this way. I feel dumb for feeling this way. I want.....

I want....

I want.

Ticking clock
Everyone stop

I feel like throwing up. I feel like drinking to excess. I feel like staying up all night with a strage woman. I feel like being interested and detatched from this strange woman. I realize that I want to want her, but I don't want anything to do with her and I feel disloyal. I feel like a pig. I hate myself.

But I'm all I've got right now.

I want....

I want....

I want.

I've got a puppy. And that's more than a lot of people. She comes when I call, and she licks my hand, and she leans against me. And I'm grateful she's here.

I....

I....

I.

I realize it's September 11th, and I feel sick when I remember that a lot of people I know tried to use it as an excuse to get a day off of school. My friend Hilary told me. I was walking into the school and she said "a plane just crashed into the World Trade Centre." and I laughed. I thought it was like a video game. I went to the third floor and laughed again to myself. A single "heh." And then I started watching the tv's that had been hooked up in all the classrooms. And I got sick. I got overexposed. I couldn't take it anymore.

I feel overexposed to myself right now. I feel embarassed for writing this.

But...

I won't delete it.

why?

why? why?

The $64,000 question. Now tell me what I've won?

A night alone in an empty apartment.

Loneliness and a fear of company.

My nose randomly begins to bleed and I think how appropriate it is, and I use it as an excuse to stop writing.

There's beauty in the break-down