/ She Asks

She asks me why I never take aspirin, because as many know, I experience blinding headaches whenever in the presence of sunlight, pretty girls or walls, and taking a page from the absolute honesty movement, I say, "I like the way I look with my head in my hands. Broody and mysterious. Like I'm hiding something. Is it a secret missive? A carnal sin? A fatal diagnosis?"

"You never go to the doctor. So it must be one of the first two."

It is Sunday, so I go into some recollection of a memory, and I remember that my headaches started around the time my mother re-married, which would have been 1982, and that is the year everyone stopped taking aspirin, because the Tylenol was really cyanide. In 1983, we were all cranky. And the media claimed that the new tamper-proof bottles were the silver lining of the whole thing. But even without the new triple sealed, child-proof lids, people started eating aspirin again, because they were like, 'Fuck it. At least I won't die with a headache.'

"People should be tamper-proof."

"I don't see the fun in that. Every fifth one is poisonous. That's the thrill."

"Where did you disappear to?"

Maybe I should have lied. I don't take aspirin because of the liver damage. Or I don't take aspirin because I enjoy the flashing lights and sense of absolution. Or I can't bear to swallow anything larger than a regret. Something vague and poetic, but really, honestly just a load of horse shit.

"Sorry. I just couldn't hang around anymore."

I had escaped earlier from a going-away party for my mother-in-law, hosted at my parents' house, and realized that the reason I find lying so useful is because I can imagine the truth, as it might sound coming from my mouth, and it makes me laugh out loud, which then forces me to either explain why, or pretend I was coughing, sneezing or hallucinating.

The truths, as they presented themselves to me, would have involved me saying the following:

You're right. I don't love you. I am uncomfortable around you and the reason I am here is because I mistakingly followed a sense of moral obligation to your doorstep and am now too lazy to move away.

Chappaquiddick? Are you still relying on Chappaquiddick to make your point, you fascist son of a bitch? Jesus fucking Christ, you could have at least used McGreevey in your argument, you goddamned Nazi. Take your Lyme's disease meds and tell me why you killed my dog.

I don't like you. I can barely remember your name. You keep looking at my wife and that offends me, because she is way out of your league. If you were attractive, I wouldn't even care. Why are all of my parents' friends so goddamned ugly, anyway?

Remember that time you kissed me? Ha! I bet you don't talk much about that at home.

You're a lousy piece of shit. And I hate telling you this, because I feel so sorry for you.

My god, the truth is evil.

When I sneaked away, I filled the cheapest glass I could find with scotch. When she asked if I had been drinking, I said, "No. Not at all. It must be the onset of diabetes. Be a dear and make me a sandwich."