Problem one: Too curious. Not a normal curious, not a bright springy and playful curious; some sort of strange apprehensive curious. Something that boils in my stomach almost like fear, fear of not knowing or something. This is the kind of curious that winds up setting me down in condemned homes, in cemeteries, at psychics, in sales jobs. I have to open my mail, even if I know I shouldn't. I have to pick up the phone, even if the caller ID reads "police" and I don't remember where I was last night. That kind of curious.

Problem two: There's a tall vampire looking for me. Seriously. He doesn't dress like the fairy tale vampires, he wears jeans and t-shirts and jackets like everyone else. It doesn't fool me though. I'm not actually sure if he even has fangs like vampires are supposed to; I've been pretty successful at keeping my distance. I do know that he wants to suck me dry though, and that's enough. He comes around like creditors come around, losing the scent for a few months every time I move.

Problem three: If you had a hard time swallowing number two, you may want to give up here. I have medusa feet. Yes, that is pretty much what it sounds like. There can be anywhere from about four to twenty snakes per foot. I cut them off when I get the chance, and yes, it hurts. They grow like the the eyes of potatoes; they're kind of slow, but damn if they don't sneak up on you. The longer I stay still, the faster they grow. About half of 'em work on burrowing deeper and deeper into the ground that I'm standing on, while the other half slither up my ankles and bite at my thighs. One time, one almost made it to my armpit. They're trying to get to my heart, and if they make it, well, I'm pretty much done for.

I'm walking home in the snow, collar turned up, hands shoved in pockets. The sky is gray and full of ice-dust, twirling around like so many little whirlwinds. Cars cruise by cautiously, their headlights and taillights shifting and dancing through the snow like shadows cast from a burning house. I feel nervous. I suppose there's not much new there. I'm walking pretty fast, with long rigid strides. I stop for a moment at a crosswalk, the light's red. Standing still isn't so great for the cold. I turn around for a moment, and there's this tall guy some twenty feet behind me. He's been behind me since I left work, which may be contributing to the nervousness.

The light turns green, the red hand switches over to a white "walk" sign. I walk. Long strides, hands in pockets. I decide to take a right prematurely. It's not that I think this guy's following me, just more of a little game. I take a right. I can still get home this way, it's just not as direct. The snow is still coming down in swirls, but there's less cars down this street. I turn around, just my head really, nonchalant like. God dammit, tall guy. Ok, ok. This was just a game anyway, had I gone straight instead of playing this ridiculous game with myself, tall guy would have turned here just the same. Deep breath.

Going this direction, I will walk by a supermarket. I figure I'll go in and browse aimlessly for awhile. This time, it's less of a game than a losing tall guy technique. I guess if he's going this way, it's not all that unlikely that he would be going to the supermarket to begin with - but if he goes in I can just browse an aisle or two and take off. I wait at an intersection right before the supermarket. A car goes by, then another. A few more cars are lined up. I turn around and damn if tall guy isn't just about ten feet behind me. He's wearing slim black jeans, emo-style, black flat-bottomed canvas shoes, a white t-shirt of some sort and a tight leather jacket with studs on the shoulders. He's got dark wiry hair, a long face with sharp cheek bones and a chin like a beak, dark glasses and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. I turn back. Still cars in the road, and still cars coming. God dammit.

I step out into traffic, a station wagon locks up its brakes but keeps sliding forward on the snow. The driver is too scared to be yelling yet, but they will be soon enough. I don't even look. There's no car coming the other way so I dash across the street into the supermarket parking lot. I make a bee line for the front door. Long strides. Don't turn around.

There's bell ringer in front of the supermarket with his red smock and his big red change bucket hanging from a tripod looking thing. He's dark skinned with a sunken face, and big smiling teeth. Ring! Ring! He's probably been standing out here all day.

"Excuse me sir? Do you have a second?" He asks as I stride right by him. No I don't, not even one.

I don't pick up a basket.

I take a right and make for the vegetables. The fluorescent light hums down at a million beats a second. Two fat ladies pad by lazily, bent over and leaning heavy on their carts like they were walkers. There's a girl looking at the pre-packaged salad, and an old black man choosing potatoes. This fluorescent light is no good for my nerves. Compared to outside it's clinical in here, the floor tiles a loud white, everything arranged tidy and neat, and this rancid vibrating light shimmering all over everything. God damn this fluorescent light! I walk past the onions, fast. I pick up a turnip and pivot on my feet, pulling a 360. I hold the turnip near my face and gaze over it like a bad spy over his newspaper.

There he is. He's got a red pepper in his hand but he sure as hell isn't looking at it. He's looking straight at me, all 6'5" of him or whatever. He's at least a head taller than me anyway. The metal zippers and studs on his black leather jacket shed the fluorescent light like they're oiled. He seems to be studying me, standing almost perfectly still and staring over two displays of fresh vegetables at me. I'm like a dear in headlights. My nervousness is ringing like a crystal wine glass, clean and piercing. I feel blank. Time slows down as I watch his grip on the pepper loosen. It slips out of his hand, falling straight down at a fraction of real time like a feather in a vacuum. The pepper disappears behind the vegetable display. I feel my disabling fear changing, not subsiding, just changing into something entirely different. It's a slow process, but that's fine, everything seems real slow right about now. And now, like smoke out of a hot-boxed two seater that opens the sunroof doing ninety on the freeway, now, clear as a fucking bell. The pepper rolls out dreamy from behind the wooden display.

I've thrown the turnip at him, pivoted and taken two and a half running steps before I know what's happened. Like a god damned wildebeest that's been shot in the ass with a BB gun. I'm flying past frozen vegetables and entrees in a blur, hooking my hand on rack corners to hurl unbearably tight corners around aisles. There's some serious adrenaline disorientation going on, but in a few seconds I manage to point myself at an exit. I'm running so damned fast my spine bends back fifteen degrees from my hips and my arms are flailing like whirly-gigs. The tall skinny security guard with his gray jacket that mopes around the front of the store sees me coming at him at a mile a minute. He misunderstands, the bastard. He tries to get in front of me and ends up laying down hard on the linoleum. I barely even hear it. I'm jumping when there aren't even obstacles in front of me, like a bucking bronco with 160 pounds of marlboro smoking asshole on his back.

As soon as I'm back out in the snow I take a hard right, grabbing at one of those facade pillars to make the turn. I never knew I had this range of motion. I'm pretty sure I can hear his footsteps behind me, thump thump thumping on the ground at intervals just longer than my own footsteps. It could be my heart. I sure as hell can't turn around though, especially in this whirling shit storm of a blizzard. I need every ounce of forward perception working overtime so I don't end up taking a dive into asphalt. Thump thump thump. I careen past a stop sign and hazily hear a screech and a honk. Two more blocks, and I'm home free - or home at least. Thump thump thump. My fists are curled tight and swinging back and forth violently, they seem about as important to speed as my feet do for some reason. I can see my little apartment building now, all yellow with cracked paint and green trim. It's funny it looks like a piece of shit even when I'm out of my head scared. God dammit! Keys! I lunge one of my hands deep into my jacket pocket and grasp at my keys, I feel slower and awkward with just the one swinging fist now. I'm trying to sort through my keys subconsciously, testing each one with my finger tips and pushing it forward on the ring when it's not the right one. I'm almost to the rickety green iron fence around my apartment building. Got the key. At least I hope to hell I do. The fence is only waist high and has a decorative little door in the front, which is always closed but never locked. Three more feet.

My foot smashes into the front gate and it gives way like a ten year old kid. I hear it ricochet and slam closed again, so fast I'm surprised I made it through. Key to door. Turn door knob. Door opens and I fling myself in and slam the door closed behind me. Thump thump thump. I look out the stain glass windows on either side of the door. Nothing. Granted I can only see about fifteen yards with the snow, but there's certainly not a leather wearing 6'5" vampire at my door. Thump thump thump. It's my heart. Jesus h christ.

My door is number five and it seems like I'm there before I even decide to stop staring out the front windows. My heart is cooling down a bit, but my nerves race like live wires up and down my forearms. My tricep twitches like the shank of a bullock getting a cattle prod kiss. I push my flimsy door open, still breathing hard, and slip into my dim little studio. There's dishes in the sink, and clothes on the floor. I wiggle my toes in my shoes; no sign of foot snakes. Good. I sit down on my little bed in the corner, flaccid on account of the year old air mattress, and press my palms to my temples. Think. And then there it is, like somebody's planned it all out, like somebody knows exactly what they're doing. A simple white envelope adorns my headboard, scrawled on the front are the words "Do not open". For fuck sake. It could be my handwriting but with my blood racing and my head throbbing - how should I know. I wrap my big hand around my forehead and look away. Breath. The snow is still blundering down by the ton outside my front windows. I stare into the white and scan for any 6'5" shaped shadows. No such luck. I look back at the envelope, half believing it up and disappeared when I wasn't looking. On the far side of the headboard is a little translucent orange bottle with a white safety cap - the envelopes' antithesis.

Seroquel, 300mg, twice daily. Haven't had one in a week. Not about to now, neither, not when I'm this damn close to... well, something.