Suffragette City.

I can't escape this hell

So many times I've tried

But I'm still caged inside

Somebody get me through this nightmare

I can't control myself

Lights are like this constant stop light in my life, they constantly control the very minimal details of my life, coinciding with the very biggest details of my rather mundane life. I felt like they were controlling my life. All it was, all it was was yellow,

And I remember when my mother told me, she told me that yellow was to help us and him in his passing to the Peter Pan realms. That’s would she called them, the Peter Pan realms, which was so incredibly fourth grade I couldn’t help but wonder if my first grade teacher told her that when my little problem came to light.

This yellowness was kept inside of me, like a friggin’ lynx in a glass cube. Puh-lease. It’s ironic, really. The yellow is supposed to let you free, stream you into Pan, greedy hands groping you into Aftlife. Sort of like those pushy men in the Montreal airports.

Eventually, I will puke up all this yellow I have swallowed over the past years. Like when my dog drank the sallow milk and puked it up all over every room except the bathroom.

So what if you can see the darkest side of me?
No one will ever change this animal I have become

Help me believe it's not the real me

Somebody help me tame this animal

The darkest side of me, was really the brightest side of the world. Yellow. For God’s lickin’-lolly-pop. I might as well just win the most pathetic, worth-less, son of a breast-job daughter mafia crap award. Completely retarded to the epic mark of a point million.

Yellow. Yellow, a step away from beige, the Lion King. Yellow, half a mark away from friggin’ Cabbage Patch Dolls packages. Yellow. Tweety Bird. Yellow. The sun. Yellow. Lemon candies. Yellow, yellow, yellow. Kill me now.

I know its not true, that it can’t be possibly that yellow has hindered my actual life, my form of life, because.. yellow! God! Yel-low. The colour in itself has lead me to live a doubled life, believe it or no. But yes, I am a falling bridge unto myself. I ruin any chance at happiness just because mommy thought it’d be swell to run a yellow paint brush through my geometrically correct room.

I can't escape myself

(I can't escape myself)

So many times I've lied

(So many times I've lied)

But there's still rage inside

Somebody get me through this nightmare

I can't control myself

My mom thought – when I gave way to vocal grievances – that she should take me to like, one of those places where they talk to you, and try to cure your frightful fear of like, things. Like, whatever. You know, the fear of dolls, clowns, they go hand in hand. The fear of loud children, the fear of quiet children, the fear of dirt, the fear of getting lost, the fear of not getting lost, the fear of bright colours, the fear of yellow. Etc and etc.

You know, normal stuff.

My response, was like how Peter would respond if you told him he had to grow up, and that there were no either/or’s, there would be no choices, no arguments, no options, no nothing’s.

Yes.

I used to wonder if my mother was just insane, not completely cookoo, not completely, ‘what-are-those-round-thi-oh-marbles’ kind of losing her mind, it wasn’t really her fault entirely.

She liked to fall a lot, on the ice, on the tar, on the concrete, whatever. She fell a lot, was the basic ‘waddup’.

So, I decided to do it. Decided to just go fo’ it. And like, the lady was a complete, certified psycho!

Asking me questions like, ‘and how do you feel about that? Mhm.’ Then she asked me the most bizarre question, I had been humming, really badly, I’m not much of a singer, and she asked, ‘what’s that you’re humming?’ and I replied, saying it was a song. She asked me what the lyrics were – of all the things! – so I told her, ‘Bobby was a snowman, he was a very hunky-dory man. With a big black top hat and a big blue bow, he walked down the street with his pants very low.’

She kind of looked at me like I was crazy, I mean, it was my dog, Bobby was. I didn’t think it was so strange. She took that like someone shoving asparagus up her ass. But she took the fact that yellow took up my entire life, like saying was buying milk.

She then asked about my problem.

This, this is what she asked, ‘and what are you going to do with your little, problem?’ I asked her what problem was that? I really was a smart-mouth. She said, ‘the one where you mum had to attend the school in your first grade, remember, sweetheart?’

Sweetheart. Like Angela says ‘sweetie’ too much to Bones. It just didn’t sound right.

But anyway, I knew which problem she was talking about, I did. It was obvious, I mean, it’s the only problem I’ve ever really had, it was like, the biggest problem. Ever. It did cause a lot of trouble, too. Like, special placement, that’s what my mom called it. Because she was a psycho loony like that.

I asked her what she wanted to know about my problem, because there was a lot to know, but very few words to describe it with.

She said, ‘I just want to know what is was?’

As if she didn’t know it, seriously. They tell these kinds of people everything, how much we puked when we were first born, if we ever did anything illegal, say.. drawing all across the most popular boy in kindergarten.

So I told her, I told her that I had a problem with lights, told her that you might as well have told me that I’m so robo-freak Albino.

Told her that they had to put me in rooms with low lighting, and absolutely no yellow. Told her that I was a freak.

Oh boy.

She kind of looked like she wanted to laugh, like she wanted to point, and laugh. Like she wanted to laugh and to point. Like those stupid grade twelve’s when the stupid frog like, exploded (exploded!) in my face, and she did laugh, too.

And I said that she must not have been a real therapist or whatever because they don’t laugh. They sit there, all snooty and ugly, usually with a mole.

She didn’t like that.

She kicked me out into the hallway. With the lights.

Ouch.

And she said that I’d end up like Roxanne, and have some wanna-be cop chasing me around New York threatening all-year detention.

Then I realized that the hallways were being painted yellow, that the smell still stuck in my mind like a friggin’ post it.

It was kind of funny, too, really funny. My mom said that I was just trying to get myself kicked out of the house! She said, just one more time! Just get kicked out of one more therapist’s office and then see what’ll happen!