Doldrums

There's a series of California highways, freeways, driveways, lined in palm and succulent. They all carry ambiguously numerical names; 101, 225, 5, 154, and they fly like flecks of spit from the mouths of the aesthetically elect. These twinkling fuckers. Someone always seems to have a powder to sprinkle on food to suppress my appetite, some pointed factorial on which fruits have a high sugar content, a euphemism to describe what's wrong with the generously-applied curves of my body, and a meticulous record of my outfit repeats and offenses. And I drink it all in. I let my odometer teeter dangerously close to empty while I merge from one stretch of pavement to the next; 101, 225, 5, 154. I sit in reclining chairs and let a nimble blonde paint my hair the color of clotted blood. A color that, when rinsed from my hair, drains in lazy strains down the sink and leaves behind an inky black that extends to my roots. I subject my body to muscle-shuddering exercises that leave me nauseous and momentarily blinded. I see a dog shit on the sidewalk, staring at me the entire time. I learn that a smiling acquaintance has passed away.