I live in the middle of nowhere.
On unpronounceable street on the first floor.
There's only one floor.
My name is discotheque. I'm 87 years old.
I believe in taking care of myself,
and a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine.
In the morning, if my hands aren't shaking,
I'll take 360mg of extended release amphetamine,
while doing my daily pull-up session.
I can do a thousand now.
After I start to feel heart palpitations, I go to the vitamin closet.
For multivitamins, I take two gummy dinosaurs.
Then, a gummy fruit pastel.
And a single magic bean.
Then I chug down 2 grams paracetamol to slow the approaching migraine,
while I prepare the rest of my routine.
I always use a painkiller with little or no risk of stomach ulceration,
because stomach ulcers are incredibly painful and make you die.
Then two tabs of zinc, then omega-3,
followed by a final megadose of vitamin D3.
There is an idea of a discotheque, some kind of abstraction,
but there is no real me.
Only an entity, something illusory.
And though I can hide my cold gaze,
and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours
and maybe you can even sense our life styles are probably comparable,
I simply am not there.