Of all the ways I've found to poison my body, I think "accidentally spraying myself in the face with freon" has proven to be the most effective. Like, a thousand times more effective than E, which is basically worthless.
I was defrosting our freezer, because our fridge was starting to act up and wasn't cooling like it's supposed to. I had just made the half-hour ride from work in about thirteen minutes or so, because I was FEELING IT, man. I was rolling. Don't know what. Just in a good mood and the weather was agreeing with me and I was just gunning it all the way home, bounding up the stairs, and announced cheerfully that it was time to defrost the freezer and - ba-daaaaa. One wrong move with the chisel, which I didn't know was the wrong move until I pulled the shelf of ice off the top of the freezer and PFFFFFFFFFFT right in my gorgeous face.
I, of course, didn't get out of the way of the spray cloud because I don't have a lick of sense. And I stayed there with the door open, continuing to defrost the freezer, because whatever licks of sense I might have had left had been killed by freon.
Now I'm basically higher than I've ever ever been, or, y'know, since I was fifteen.
So I broke our fridge and now we have to get another one tomorrow. And we have basically no money, and a baby on the way, and I ain't got no job and, well, if you know me you know that I basically want to kill myself and am convinced that I am responsible for all death and all pain the world over. I burst that freon, realized the milk was going to go bad, and thought, "Great. I just killed my baby." It's the way my brain works and I don't know why.
Spring assured me that "accidents happen" and she wasn't mad, but I sulked all night because I'm the stupidest person who ever lived and I don't deserve love.
Anyway, then Spring bought me dinner and I felt way better! Fried park chop sandwich! And then Sleazy called. And I didn't realize I was still on freon until we were talking. And this is what I want to tell you.
I don't know how we got here, BTW.
It's a game show, one of those game shows on NBC that they host in that weird Roman Death Trap stage, the 360 degree thing with the audience shrouded in darkness. It's called "Why Does My Face Smell Like Blood?" It's hosted by creepy shaven-headed Joey Lawrence.
They bring somebody up to the raised circle at the bottom of the pit ("Next up is a systems analyst from Denver, Colorado! Everybody help me bring David up to the stage!"). A PA splashes him in the face with a bucket. Then, creepy shaven-headed Joey Lawrence crouches like Johnny Bench, thoughtfully chapels his fingers against his chin and, "Let's put 45 seconds on the clock! David...for $10,000 dollars...why does your face smell like blood?"
"Uh...a dog exploded?"
"Hm...(smelling the air)...rendering plant?"
"Way off. 25 seconds!"
"I cut my finger!"
"David, do you want to call a friend?"
"Uh...there was a...somebody broke their..."
"I'm sorry, David. The answer we were looking for was 'bus accident'. Bus accident."
Sleazy: "'Now let's bring up our next contestant. She's a school teacher--'"
Chris: And she's just crying. Like, softly whispering "Why does my face smell like blood?"
Sleazy: And that's how we play "Why Does My Face Smell Like Blood?"
Chris: I'm telling you, I am so high on freon right now.
Our meats and milk and such are in a cooler Kate was nice enough to lend us after a chance encounter on the street. She asked me what freon smelled like and I gave her my hands.
"Oh! Freon smells horrible! Are you...do you have super powers or something now?"
"Yes. I'm going to kill Batman."
I will wake up early and I will call the used fridge place when they open. I will probably ride my bike there to pick one out, and give them my address and tell them my pregnant wife will let them in. And then I will go to a job interview and hopefully I will get this one, and then I might be able to sleep at night without worry worry worry worry. I hope. Otherwise, I'm just going to developed a really nasty freon habit to deal with everything, living in a huge mansion I bought with the proceeds from my Freon Trilogy of novels, a pile of used frigerators in the backyard, where my public can't see. An intervention, with everyone in my living room telling me I need to stop fridging off, because it already cost me my marriage and my kids. So much denial, such a fight, and then I reluctantly get in the white van and head to the airport, slumped over. Resigned.