Your Life Is A Practical Joke On Me was recording before during and after an anxiety attack.

My face looks like a scum fuck sewer even when I shave. I cough all the time, and I’m not the one who smokes here. I imagine myself at the office to sell my plasma, getting turned away while the other freaks stare at my back. Gauging me for loose change and cigarettes. Earthquakes in their spine making San Diego nervous.

It gets late. Friends are here, but there’s a movie in between us in case we start to talk. There’s an internet forum in case we start to think too hard. There’s conflict unresolved and it divides my tongue, and my house. Yet there’s always the movie in case we start to talk.

We go the the Yucca. I get paranoid. The band on stage doesn’t even move my bowels. In the parking lot watching people disassociate, like the way their hair breaks loose and falls into spit. I lose track, and pat backs of people who don’t recognize I’m there. I invite my friends on the doormat of my tongue. I become an accessory to this scene, a loaned book or an unreturned phone call. I’d look better as a coffee table. People speak to me to get from me. I get the bathroom door, the space as they walk by, their backs.

I get angry, I leave. I get angry I left. I walk by myself, followed by a man with his shirt unbuttoned. His eyes are two scars in asphalt. I didn’t bring my knife and I take a long route with footsteps behind me. Another man from the local bar shouts, “This man! He’s alright. Hey man, you’re alright!”