Ok. I’m fully aware that lately I haven’t been ‘all there.’ I’d like to think of myself as a pretty active listener, but just visually — you’ll see me nod at you, furrow my brows like, “Oh wow, cool, and then what happened?” And then you’ll look hurt and confused because you were telling me about how your dog died.
If I’m nodding, just trust that somewhere in my mind, there’s a part of me that really cares about what you’re saying right now. Unfortunately, that version of my consciousness is busy competing with some impending thought like, “so it is your week to take out the garbage” or, “you better go check you didn’t accidentally address that email to your boss with ‘Hey babe,’ rather than ‘Hello.’”
You must know, Tuesdays are for ritual coffee breaks with the homies. Between 1:55 p.m. and 3:07 p.m., the three of us gabber until one of us asks, “Welp same time next week?”
A few Tuesdays ago, we were settled on a crumby three-seater in front of the greasy Nest Fresh Slice. Homie to my left, let’s call them Facetious Homie, is recapping the birthday party I missed through bites of Blue Chip bagel as their eyes dart between me and homie to my right — that’s Coloratura-soprano Homie (guess their major).
“Yeah,” they’re saying. “Maybe partying 'til 3 a.m. while on cough medicine wasn’t…” — oh no.
It’s happening, I feel it, it’s taking over. Something is beckoning my attention… Oh I’m already gone. Facetious Homie is now a fleeting muffle, for their precarious clinical struggle is no match for mainstream corporate pop.
“Paint my nails cherry red, match the roses that you left…”
Suddenly my head’s doing that thing where I’m trying to attend to two things at once. Facetious Homie, I want to hear you speak, but “Flowers” by Miley Cyrus is blasting at the Fresh Slice.
“Ooh, I didn't wanna leave you —” well that’s painfully ironic. For a second, I picture Miley at the Grammy’s that one time she covered her entire head in hair spray.
Something totally out of pocket Facetious Homie must have said snaps me back into reality. Ok, I’m so back as an active participant in this discussion. Nobody witnessed anything — including me, because I actually can’t remember what happened in the last 30 seconds.
Now we’re talking about boys and what is a socially acceptable amount of cream cheese to slap on a bagel. I wanna say something intellectual, but somehow I’m right back where I started.
“Paint my nails cherry red —”
Hold up — weren’t we just here like one minute and 37 seconds ago?
“Started to cry, but then remembered I…”
I can buy myself flowers, right?
“I can take myself dancing,” Miley’s cig-laden rasp continues. Huh?
I watch as Facetious Homie inhales the last few bites of their bagel. Coloratura-soprano Homie is waiting for her tea to cool down, and she’s gesticulating and making really engaging eye contact. It looks like a fascinating conversation that Miley doesn’t want me to hear.
And then it dawns on me — I’m the only one who is ever going to know Fresh Slice’s secret. This location is playing a black market looped version of “Flowers” by Miley Cyrus. I’ll never hear the chorus and I’ll never hear the end of the song. Until I think I will. But it’ll be too late, because I’ll be braindead.
“PAinT mY nAilS CheRry rEd —”
I consider going up to the Fresh Slice manager and asking if there’s a man named Pizza Pied Piper working a shift but then I remember I don’t feel like dancing. I just want to hurl.
“I’m going to go get a glass of water,” I say, removing myself from the premises. I trudge to the bathroom, vision blurring, quietly affirming to myself that I could buy myself flowers if I really wanted to, no one needs to tell me that, right? Right?
I’m in cold sweats, man. The anticipation of the chorus is ringing in my ears. I imagine Miley Cyrus standing across from her disdained elementary school teacher after asking “can I go to the bathroom?” instead of, “may I go to the bathroom?” Now Miley can’t finish her line — she’s too afraid to say she can buy herself flowers because her teacher is right there, waiting for her to say, “I may buy myself flowers.”
And as the hypotheticals run in my head, I’m simply paralyzed. The homies are probably worried now, but Fresh Slice is too far away to hurt me.
Wait… I feel something breathing down my neck and — you guys, she made it to the bathroom. She’s in the bathroom. No, not just the song — Hannah Montana’s reflection is staring at me in the mirror with those lifeless bloodshot eyes. I try to scream, but I too have been silenced.
And then she ate me. Yeah, I’m writing this from Hannah Montana’s stomach. And in case you’re wondering, she is able to buy herself flowers. She’s laying them on my pizza-shaped grave right now.
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