Day 1: Until Tomorrow, Yours Truly

June 6, 1994

Today I start my life over. Not in the way people say things like, “today is the first day of the rest of your life” shit. Today, I literally start my life over.

My new therapist thinks it will help if I write down my thoughts on life, the weather, who won on the Price is Right this morning, who the fucks knows. I’m not the kind of person who writes things. Yeah, maybe I’d write a little note on the inside of a coworkers birthday card, but the most it consisted of was “Have a great one”. Or if I was feeling witty “Don’t drink too much and call in sick tomorrow”. But as I said, it’s a new life today. So, I can be whoever or whatever I want, including someone who writes things. Hell, I can be a god-damned astronaut or major league player or even a fucking truck driver if I want.

I’ll start my “diary” by talking about the shit they served me for breakfast today. I can only describe it as a bowl o’ backwash, with accompanying raisins, I think. People say that most memories are triggered by smell, which is why after smelling it, I purposely plugged my nose as to not remember it in the future. But, her I am remembering it again, dammit.

I did remember something else though, while I was forcing myself to have my breakfast. It was a memory, I think. I don’t know much more about where this memory took place, or even if it belonged to me or if it was just something I imagined or saw on TV or read in a book, but the details were vivid. Dentist’s office. More specifically the ceiling. There were pictures of the planets, Mars, Earth, a shooting star and then out of nowhere a giant Mickey Mouse decal, bigger than the Earth. Mickey had a giant toothy grin on his face. Nice, clean, well taken care of mouse chompers.

There’s speakers on the wall. I can hear music. It’s familiar but I can’t recall the name of it. Its skipping. The same damn tune over and over again. I’m trying to get out of here, say something, move. But I’m powerless. I’m alone. And listening to this FUCKING SONG on extreme repeat while Mickey stares down at me, smiling. Fuck you Mickey.

Finally, someone comes in. “Oh, I’m sorry Julie. I didn’t realize you were awake.”

They yell out to somewhere beyond Mars and Mickey, “The music is skipping again. Turn it off for now and get me the fluoride tray.”

I am being told to spit. A bowl is placed in front of my face. I spit and look down and inside I see…

Today’s breakfast. The backwash they served me this morning. The memory ends with no resolution. Who is Julie? What is the name of that god-damned song?

If anything, today I am a writer and my therapist should be satisfied with me writing AND bonus, a memory of sorts.

Until tomorrow, yours truly.