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Little piece from a book I wrote.. kind of says a lot about me.

So here I am, sitting in this very familiar room of leather furniture and no dust. The no dust thing kind of creeps me out. It's almost inhuman to not have dust somewhere in the room.

He walks in the room. He smiles, smooths the hair on his head and sits down.

Therapist: "Good afternoon, April."

Me: "Heya. How's it going with the misses?"

Therapist: "Pardon me?"

Me: "Well, I saw the picture in your drawer and I figured the half naked lady was your wife."

He turns a dark sort of red, almost purple and then shakes his head violently.

Therapist: "April, wh...what are you...uhh... talking about?!"

I just wanted to discompose him. I didn't find any pictures in his drawer. As a matter of fact I didn't even look.

I watch him get up out of his chair and then begin to ransack his desk. He even started throwing files out of his drawer onto the floor. They scattered and flew and floated and glided like wings and feathers in a fury of free passion being set loose from their confined quarters.

He stops. He looks at me from the corner of his eyes. I grin.

Therapist: "April... what picture?"

Me: "Doesn't this place look more human now? Doesn't it look... I don't know... REAL now?"

I look around the room calm and composedly feeling more alive in this mess than in the over exaggerated cleanliness.

He sits down and looks at me as if I AM crazy.

Therapist: "April. Did you just trick me?"

Me: "Yep."

Therapist: "Why?"

Me: "This place isn't real enough when it's spotless. I think of lies when there is no dust in here. I think of deceit and hidden secrets when I see this place spotless and polished as if nothing is ever touched. Don't you?"

Therapist: "Why do you think of all these things, April, when you see no dust?"

Me: "Dust is everywhere. It covers everything and forms from dead skin cells. Something is very wrong when there is no dust... it means that there have been no people. Besides, when everything is perfect even in one small room on this planet... then something is obviously wrong."

Therapist: "..."

I crawl off the couch and lay on the papers that have settled back down to earth. They weren't able to fly out of the room, though I am sure that's what they wanted to do. I stare at the ceiling and begin to hum.

Therapist: "What song are you humming?"

Me: "I don't know. I'm making it up as I go."

So he sits there and writes and thinks some more. I tell him he shouldn't think so much. It could damage him almost indefinitely if he thinks too much all the time.

Therapist: "Thinking can be very beneficial to you all the time, April."

I laugh. Then I cackle, roll over, hold my stomach and explode with laughter. The room is filled with it; horrible, shrill, then low key and broad.

Me: "Thinking is a mindless and timeless opportunity to self loath and self degrade ourselves in the name of all that is emotionally damaging... You got all that?"

I look at him.

Me: "I certainly hope you do because if you're going to waste your time thinking about me and this job of yours then you should most certainly do something productive with your time and think about that."

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