There are too damned many floors in this skyscraper that is my mind. Honestly. What distracted clerk approved the building design? There’s no way it meets code. I hope the architect was fired in disgrace and now subsists on food stamps and the bitter reminiscence of their shattered career.
The stairwells are scattered willy-nilly, and none go to all the floors. I did find an elevator once but the buttons weren’t labelled.
You’d think spending so much time on the upper floors, I could at least enjoy a nice view, but the skies are rarely clear, and anyway, I usually forget to look out.
I tell my therapist I’m “all up in my head,” and what I mean is please give me the emergency exit map so I can get back to the ground floor, the place without so much clunky furniture and clinging cobwebs, where I can walk without stubbing my toe, look down and see nothing, then wonder how so much pain can come from an empty space.
Renee Writes 