No, no, no...
I dreamt of the squirrel tonight. At least I think it was a dream.
I opened my eyes and saw it perching on the footboard of my bed. As always, it wore a top hat and a coat and held a cane beneath one wing.
It looked at me for a long time and then it spoke. It said:
"Do you want me to dance?"
I considered the offer carefully, weighing the different aspects and consequences of my potential actions and reasons for my (not yet made) choice, before deciding, somewhat to my surprise - considering its last, unremarkable performance - that yes, I wanted it to dance. In any case, it looked scary and I didn't want to upset it.
"Yes," I said. "Please do."
It danced.
Music came from under my bed - hard and fast music that scared me - and the squirrel danced from one side of the footboard to the other.
I shivered at the sight. It moved jerkily, stiffly. I now saw that its eyes were flat and the impression came to me that the squirrel did not move at all, but rather that its reflection in my mind jerked and writhed, trying to escape.
For a moment my bedroom took on the appearance of a prison and I believed myself to be the squirrel trapped therein. Through the window a giant eye peered in, blinking in what I took to be confusion.
Then I woke up. At least I think I did.
It is very disturbing to write of this, so I will merely say that I woke up (I think) with a fever and that it has not receded yet.
I will, using a syringe, redistribute my blood. Hopefully, that will make me relax. I might even be able to cool it to a comfortable temperature.
The syringe truly is a wonder of civilization.
The wonder, I should say.
I have at last been successful in obtaining, not one, but
five syringes. I can not say how I acquired them, however. I fear the authorities would be unsympathetic.
I will certainly not discard these treasures after one use, as the hospital staff so shamelessly did. The barbarians!
Even the return of the dog can not shake my contentment. It came back as I was in the bathroom sterilizing my entire body, and laid down in front of the door so that I was unable to exit until it moved, six hours later.
I spent the interval redistributing my bodily fluids, in particular my blood. I also wanted to inject water into my throat, but as I was unable to boil it in the bathroom, it did not seem safe. I did it anyway, I am ashamed to say.
I am frankly shocked. My behavior these last days has not been regular. I really should get a grip on myself.
But it is so good. Oh, filthy me...
I did it. Oh, bliss. I feel whole, for the first time in my otherwise dreary life. How can I have gone through life ignorant of this most exalted of earthly pleasures? How have I survived?
I know not. But I do know - yes, now I know - that there is such a thing as happiness. All is not misery - although it is still quite obvious that most is. But this misery, the void of existence, is naught but the absence of the syringe, that instrument of fulfillment.
How could it be otherwise?
I thought the prize would be excessive. How wrong I were. A mere gash through the artery of my left leg and a taxi to the hospital. True, the taxi driver verbally abused me for bleeding in his car, but I have led a rough life and only cried for a couple of minutes.
And the reward! Syringes everywhere! Oh, and a blood transfusion... I blush.
They kept me all wednesday for observation, though - they seemed to think I was suicidal - and would not let me have any syringes, or indeed any sharp objects. They also foiled my attempts to steal a box of syringes as I left and told me to go to another hospital the next time I chickened out of suicide.
But I carried the insults with a smile on my face, though my heart was heavy. The syringes... the wonderful syringes...
I am once again aroused. God, what torture is this? Will I never be sated? Will my thirst never be quenched?
Have pity on me!
I am devastated. I spent the whole of yesterday attempting to acquire a syringe, but failed.
I first tried the apothecary just the down the street, but they mistook me for a man in the throes of drug deprivation (it is possible that I seemed slightly incoherent) and threatened to involve the authorities if I did not exit the establishment immediately. I complied.
I then enquired of a bedraggled man in a crowd of what I believe
were drug addicts, in the park, if he would be so kind as to supply me with an unused syringe (or several - oh, the thought), and assured him that he would be amply compensated for his trouble.
But he laughed at me and took my money by force (which I consider uncommonly brutish, as I did not in any way resist, and he could have simply asked for it - my left shoulder still hurts when I poke it).
What am I to do?
Should I... no, I couldn't. But is there any other way?
I stayed in a hotel over the weekend and, upon my return, found my house empty of dog, package and smell.
I rejoiced for a few seconds before reverting to despair.
I can no longer suppress it. I must accept myself. I must accept my... sexuality.
Yes. It is true. I am of an alternative sexual persuasion. I did not think much of it at first, but I have barely been able to sleep this past weekend for shockingly graphic images impressed on my mind's eye, plaguing my mind all night long and leaving me hot and sweaty at day's break - longing for deliverance.
The syringe!
Yes. An exclamation mark. What could drive me to such heights of passion but the syringe, that most delicate and fragile of medical equipment?
Such beauty, such subtlety of shape. I see it constantly, wherever I go, whatever I do. The syringe, drawing a fluid - any fluid - and then, slowly, agonizingly (but such sweet agony) pushing one drop out, one single drop, shimmering solitary on that deliciously sharp point and then, with an almost imperceptible ripple vibrating across the drop (oh, the drop, I see it filling the oceans of the earth) - falling, falling...
My heart falls with it, and shatters as it shatters against the floor or (oh, dare I say it?) my tongue, extended in all its length, poised expectantly beneath the syringe.
I am flushed and aroused. I must immediately acquire a syringe.
I must have it.
I must.
I...
The package, or whatever is in it, has started to smell. I politely requested of the dog that it remove said object or, if uninclined to move - as it usually is - that it allow me to perform the operation.
It did not respond.
I have started to perspire, and my pulse is steadily accelerating. I estimate I will pass out in approximately ten minutes, should I remain in the house.
The odour of decomposition has always affected me so. At least since - since I was quite young.
I will go for a walk. There are hardly any people outside.
I saw no other choice but to go to the hospital and be injected, by means of a hypodermic syringe, with various fluids. I am told that this procedure, as perverse as it may seem, is beneficent for one's health.
It was, however, quite pleasurable, and I imagine that is how females feel during copulation. And homosexual males. Although I wouldn't know.
The dog offered no excuse and no explanation for its act of violence. It is clever. It knows that I am more frightened if confused and uncertain of when it will bite me next. It is more clever than a dog should be.
I have not thought of the dead squirrel. I am quite confident I imagined it.
I am so impressionable, they say.
They would know.
Wouldn't they?
The dog informed me, this morning, that it would be out all day "fucking" its "bithches" - it shocks me terribly every time it uses that kind of language - and left.
I waited for 30 minutes, exactly, and then retrieved the package. I opened it with a sharp knife, taking care not to cut myself, while looking out the window in case the dog returned. I had also moved a high chair between the package and the window, thus effectively blocking it from view.
Inside the box was a dead squirrel. It was wearing a coat and a hat, and beside it lay a cane.
I was quite disturbed by this sight, and quickly closed the package again and returned it to the dog's carpet.
It bit me in my left ankle when it returned.
I recieved a package today. It is from my uncle. It is lying on the dog's rug, in the middle of the room. I want to open it to see what it contains, but the dog would bite me if I tried.
The dog is in the bedroom, so it can not see me. But it would hear. It would smell my fear.
I read the last entry. It seems implausible. Perhaps I dreamed it. Or perhaps it was not really a squirrel, but something else. Something... devious.
Can squirrels understand music? Do they have a natural rhythm?
I think not. I would hate them if they did. Do I hate squirrels? No. I am indifferent to the fate of squirrels.
I must lie down a moment. I am so tired.
I was looking out the window yesterday when a squirrel landed on the ledge. It wore a top hat, a tuxedo jacket and held a cane beneath one wing. It looked at me, expectantly.
The dog sat down next to me and said: "It wants you to put on some music."
The dog never fails to state the obvious.
"Yes," I replied. "I believe you are correct." I went over to the stereo and put on a Benny Goodman album.
The squirrel danced. It was quite good, but by no means exceptional. I watched it dance for a while, then went upstairs and laid on the bed.
It all seems so pointless.
I am afraid I have made a terrible mistake.
