Talking to Myself

Woke up one day and did something.

It’s Tuesday. I nearly stand up in bed at 8:16 AM thinking I’m going to miss my German class. I throw back the covers thinking work’s going to call me in for sure, the cold feet because one sock stays unfurled at the bottom of my bed. I hang down my legs from the side of the bed and think about all the things I have to do today, ready for tomorrow, and plan ahead for the future. It’s 8:16 AM. Everything is rickety, ready to teeter over me. I have a radio show to do tonight and after that I have to read the last half of the fifth Harry Potter book, because I really want to read the seventh book again. I want to know how Harry’s life can be so complex but packed inside a ream of paper, but my life is so with-the-flow that it’s taken me two weeks to come up with a autobiography for my last independent study course in cyber-school. And, there, there’s another thing to add to my Thing I Should Accomplish Before College—finishing high school. On the internet.

            I look at the mirror, drag my fingers through greasy hair, look away from the mirror, look back again. I’ve developed three more pimples since two o’clock in the morning, or when I went to bed. Snapping my fingers, I go into the kitchen, see no coffee in the pot, make some. Ten cups should be good. Krysty will probably drink half of the pot when she wakes up, so I feel no qualms about sucking down the other half.

            The caffeine is acting slowly, but I can feel pure black coffee traveling up and down the veins in my arms, working through my fingertips. I pull out everything I’ll need for the day and dump it in the living room. Laptop, headset, coffee, water bottle, highlighters, course book, German dictionary. It’s an assorted mess and I bounce it off the coffee table, settling on the couch to begin the morning’s workload. My laptop’s on, power cord draping over the couch and I stare at it blankly.

Email.

I have about a billion messages from Collegeboard.com and each one equally confusing as the billion from yesterday.

Question.

Do I delete them? Do I have the time to sort through them all? I’ll get them all again anyway, so I’ll just sort through them then. One less thing to do and I ignore the warning bell of procrastination in my head, vaguely wondering why I ever had it installed.

Still an hour before German class, before I have to log in. Last year, this time, class was a pastime, sometimes a friend-to-friend outing or, equally, naptime. An excuse to do things that I couldn’t do at my dad’s house on account of him being a loser and such. But now, I was in cyber-school and fully recognized that I’d be doomed to be like my dad if I didn’t practice escapism in collaboration with my studies.

But only in my studies.

Emails for college, a job for college, a radio show to prepare for a life after college. Everything revolves around the future. I set down my fifth cup of coffee, ignoring the whirring in my stomach to focus. I tick off every personality I’ve ever had.

Henry. Hank. S. A. Sarie. Sara. Ashes. Bobblehead Doll. Cleopatra. Sara Jo.

It’s getting crowded in here as they shoot off at once, telling me who I really am.

Henry’s an erratic They Might Be Giants fan and accordion player.

Hank’s an amateur online radio co-host.

S. A. Heistand is an overconfident writer.

Sarie was a daughter, Sara was a victim.

Ashes wanted to rebel, but quickly became a girlfriend and died.

Bobblehead Doll didn’t know who the hell she was, but she wanted to be funny.

Cleopatra was a strange one. Dark, mysterious, attention-seeking. Liked to run safety pins up and down her arm to give the appearance of emotional-physical trauma. She’s been squashed down to a degree, but she comes out sometimes—always hiding behind that freaky makeup, looking disgusted at the layers of bright colors I now integrate myself with. She’s the Dark Self from eighth grade and she’s very ridiculous looking.

Sara Jo was the first though. She had an imaginary friend named Oliver and an imaginary husky-dog named Hero. She got her name out of a book in the elementary school’s library. She was thin too. I miss that about her.

They remind me of me.

There’s still a half-hour until German class.

I forgot. There was Inge too. She had an 102% in German class at her old school. She doesn’t have a name now that we’re both in cyber-school. She’s a C-student, second rate citizen. I think I can forgive that about her. She was short-lived and I’m doing fine in everything else when I don’t have to talk to anybody but myself.