Aspirations

By Brennan Whalen

At one point or another in the evening, David realized he had lost his mind.

This feeling was observed as fleeting, without merit, and outright ridiculous, but the very thought of it brought him chills of excitement.

"They say the insane man never realizes he's insane," he thought to himself as he sat at his kitchen table. It was around 11:30, and he was knee-deep in an intoxicated mental frenzy, completely devoid of physical symptoms, but none the less all consuming. An entire bottle of gin had proven itself a helpful aid in the mental vacation he had immersed himself into.

Despite the attempt, David just couldn't shake the notion. Insanity? How exciting. This had been bounced around his head earlier on in his life. The romanticization of mental instability had proven itself insatiable, and had almost become a desire of his. "From mental disorder comes art, beauty, and inevitably fame and glory." The ashtray, suddenly coming to the conclusion that it had had enough, was overflowing with butts, ash, and a tiny trace of hash he had purchased the previous day from a Mexican tenant in the apartment below him. "Surely this could be my big break."

His thoughts raced, filled with praise, attention and spite from those who didn't "understand." It would start out with a poem, a novel, something that could show just how crazy he actually was. He'd have it published by a sympathetic local company, and rumors of this man would spread like wildfire. Slowly he would crank out work after work, and the masses would eat it up, reveling in this new trend, something unique, something unrequitedly hip, that just couldn't be ignored. Teenagers, beatnicks, coffee shop fuckers that compare knowledge of pop culture like cock size, they would all want a piece of him.

"It wouldn't be hard. Just shack up in this little apartment, lose a lot of weight, maybe take up a drug habit. Blow is played out, heroin's in these days." His heart raced, blood flowing from adrenaline and drink.

Then there would be the eventual public appearance. He'd dress wildly, like a sort of homeless Howard Hughes, and make a scene in a proper New York Barns and Noble. Sign a few autographs, hit on loose women that just beg to stand near him, and then start the tyrade. Throw chairs, rip up books, scream about aliens, or Satan, or something that would really rile everyone up. He'd finish by jumping head first through the glass door, stealing a car, and driving into the sunset.

But how should it end? The answer was simple: Hunter S. Thompson, Ernest Hemingway, Kurt Cobain, what did they all have in common? Suicide. He'd scrawl a nearly illegible suicide note on the back of a chinese take-out bag, stick it to the refrigerator, and blow his brains out. No, too cliche. He'd have to go out with a bang. Can't stab yourself, Elliot Smith already coined that maneuvere. Sleeping pills? He laughed. "What, are you thirteen?" And then it hit him. He could shoot up, steal a car, and crash it, 90 miles per hour, into a day care center. "That would show them."

In the corner of his mind, he could hear the phone ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey David, it's mom, I was just calling to see how you were doing."

"Oh, I'm fine, just getting ready for bed, I guess."

"Oh, well that's all right. I'll call you tomorrow. I love you sweetie."

"...I love you too mom."

Click.

He poured himself another glass and chuckled. "Maybe I'm not that crazy."