I walk around the house, drunk. I'm wearing women's slippers. Man, I must be a sight to behold. But I'm not quite sure. I lost my mirror and the pizza I ordered offers no reflection.
I walk around the house. I think of people who have fouled me and, therfore, should die. But, then, I think of all the interesting crafts you can make with toilet paper rolls.
Once a year, I get drunk in a darkened house for a week. I get drunk and watch Eraserhead, as I think we all do sometimes. It's my vacation.
Once a year, I have a little black & white drunk-a-thon. No phones, not a single luxury. My horoscope has been suspended. Loud industrial noises.
The first three days, I just watch. Well, I drink and watch... Eraserhead.
The third and fourth day, I usually find myself pacing, circling the TV, looking at the glow from behind. A pause for a pizza. I won't eat it. I just order it to prove I'm still in control. Eraserhead.
By the end of the week, I interact with this majestic little film. Not so much words as gesticulations. I kiss the screen. I rub my bu*tered belly on the screen, as I think we all do sometimes.
I roam around the house, the darkened, drunken house. Sometimes, and this is gonna be about an hour before dawn, I put a rose up my bum. You know, the business end sticking out. And I sort of improvise a playful dance in my surroundings. "La-la la-la la-la la-la Eraserhead!"
If you were there, in my house, you could follow a trail of those rose petals and they would lead to me, curled up, fetal position, quivering, crying, my teeth chattering, industrial Eraserhead-type noises coming from inside... me.
And, as you pick me up and wrap me in a blanket, my vacation would be complete.
This behavior might disturb me if Eraserhead weren't such a fine little film. Don't you think?