11 AM:

I’m writing this blog because I realize that something is happening to me. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve forgotten things I don’t want to. I don’t know where else to turn to.

My name’s John. I’m 25, I’ve had lower body paralysis since I was 12.

I have a steady job, it's okay. I’ve been single for a few months even if my ex’s toothbrush says otherwise. It’s stupid, I know, but it’s one of those electric brushes that costs a lot, so I don’t want to throw it away, just in case.

I have brown hair, light hazel eyes, light brown complexion, and I’m a bit overweight (the  motorized wheelchair doesn’t help).

I have a French Bulldog named Cece. She has a black-round spot in her brow, I call it her third eye.

We live with my childhood best friend, Jack. I’d say he was the perfect roommate if he didn’t insist on playing his drums in the middle of the day. He just left town for the week so I’ll finally be able to take midday naps without rough awakenings.

This thing, I think it started yesterday. I was talking to a woman on Instagram, Monica. I liked something about her. Her profile was mostly pictures of her pet birds, but a few posts showed her beautiful pale skin and gorgeous blue eyes.

We were just talking, and then she sent me these messages:

>United, we'll be happy.
Tomorrow we'll be happy.

And yes, it was weird, but I’ve been with worse crazy like with this one girl, or  was it a guy that… crap.
Doesn’t matter.

So for a while, we kept talking, about my personal life, about how her parrot Steve would shit all over the house if he was unattended, how her canary Grace took the term “bird brain to a whole other level”, and some things about my friends that I can’t recall talking about.

I’m going to eat lunch, and take Cece out to walk, I’ll keep writing after.

1 PM

It was mostly uneventful.

When we got out, my elderly, indian neighbour Rashid greeted us with a “John, Cece”  like he  always does. I swear to God he’s been painting his house’s facade and spilling paint all over the sidewalk for the last six months. I would complain but he reminds me of my dad too much for me to care.

We had to change our usual route because a large fallen branch blocked the wheelchair from the sidewalk. Cece didn’t mind.

After we reached the park, and the queen decided to poop in the most annoying place for a disabled person to pick up, we headed back home.

On our return a man painting the neighboring house asked me about Jack’s return. I’ve no clue what he was talking about. Poor guy, dementia must’ve made him confuse me with someone else.

3 PM

I had some obligatory work meetings I couldn’t miss. 

The first meeting was the long and boring kind for the most part. At some point, while I was admiring how sun deprived everyone in my team is, a teammate asked me something about last week’s report… I had no idea what she was talking about. Some teammate saved me after an uncomfortably long silence. I wish I could remember who it was to thank them, but they all looked the same.

The second meeting started badly. My microphone died on me so I had to rush to the garage to get another one. This side quest was complicated by the drum set right in the middle of the room that blocks the wheelchair. I don’t remember buying them.

Now, I’m going to for an earned nap hoping, it’ll help with my head. Wish me luck.

6 PM

FUCK!

I woke up sweating, having this awful feeling in my chest. My heart pounded so loudly, yet my head didn’t understand what was wrong.

By the time I managed to get up, the pounding stopped, and my head was hurting instead. Cece looked as confused as I, even when I offered her a walk. She didn’t want it, but I needed it, so I went out alone.

I put my walking shoes on, and took off. For some reason, they had that new shoe feel, as if the soles had never hit the ground.

I mindlessly went forward, hoping it would clear my head, but it only seemed to make it worse. I started running out of frustration, and I only halted after realising I didn’t know where I was or where I started.

The white picket fences, and cookie-cutter facades didn’t help it. I wanted to call someone for help, but I can’t recall anyone who gives a fuck about me. So, I did a 180 turn, and started running the other way, hoping I would know when to stop.

After what felt like hours, and dozens of pale runners(side note: why is every runner in this town so fucking pale? They spend hours in the sun FFS), I heard Cece’s bark. I knew it was hers because someone always said she sounded like a screaming child.

She was in the window as the one thing that distinguished the house from all the mass produced clones, barking, as if she knew I needed it. I went to the door, and sure enough, the key fit. 

I walked in, expecting stubby tail wags, but was instead welcomed with more barking. It didn’t feel like the barking of a dog happy to see its owner, rather the one of a creature afraid for its life. I neared my hand to see if she’d calm down by scent, but she backed away.

I tried again… and she bit me, hard. I instinctively pushed her, and ran to the master bedroom, slamming the door before she could get near.

She’s never been like this, not to me. 

The actual fuck is happening.

8 PM

I still can hear her snoring outside the door. She barks anytime I make a noise, it’s driving me even more mad. I’m a whole human being, stuck in his room afraid of a 20 pound dog, whose most deadly characteristic are her farts.

I tried talking to the person who started this, whatever the fuck their name is. It wasn’t easy, everyone on my laptop looked exactly the same. If it wasn’t for her pictures of Steve and Grace I would be able to find them. I tried to write, to recall what was wrong. All I could manage was to resend what I’ve written here up until now.

They responded:

>Tonight we'll be happy.

And no, I have no clue what the hell they mean. Further messages got no response. It’s making me feel stupid for ever liking those dark eyes of theirs.

9 PM

I attempted to call someone on my phone, but I forgot the password. All I had to do to unlock it then was answer the security question about my mom’s name… I have no fucking clue. Why don’t I remember that while I can perfectly recall that 20 years ago she adopted a calico cat named Bizcuit Jones?

God, the heart pounding came back, with an accompanying throbbing headache. 

I went to the bathroom to take a shower, I found two toothbrushes. What the hell? Why is there another toothbrush in my personal bathroom?

This is my house, this is my room, why does it feel like it’s not made for me?

I'm sorry for the messy writing, as you can probably tell, I’m having a hard time gathering my thoughts. I’ll keep writing whenever I manage to gather my thoughts.

11 PM

Something feels wrong. 

I look at my pale white skin in the mirror, it looks normal, but it feels off.

I don't remember if I've always looked like this.

We don’t remember anything else.

12 AM

Thank you for worrying.

We're okay now.

United, we'll be happy.
Tomorrow we'll be happy.