Fiction: A Meretriz Nomeada Tristeza
By Collin Jones
There I was, eyes closed, lying supine on a fully-reclined roll-in medical chair, my head and limbs securely fastened to the frame by way of military-grade canvas restraints, listening to the low rumble of the ventilation system above.
East Grand River Therapeutic Services was Mom’s idea. She told me she had heard nothing but wonderful things about it. And that the online reviews alone made the place sound like some sort of paradisiacal vacation.
I had been in this little white windowless unit many times before. The LED troffers overhead were warm and intense, erasing even so much as the thought of a shadow. The spotless walls melted into one another. Which formed one seamless plane of pure unalloyed colorlessness. The word purgatorial rang in my ears. Dr. Ambrose explained to me that Rebirth — an outcome contractually guaranteed me during orientation — was only possible within an environment of Absolute Vulnerability. Hence my stay in a unit of pure unalloyed colorlessness.
Crimson phosphenic images undulated behind my eyelids.
This March will mark my fourth year with East G. R.
My appointments were scheduled for one hour. I counted the seconds to pass the time. Head-pains were almost always present. These head-pains were not, however, your average cluster- or tension-types. They were not head-aches. They were head-pains. It felt like my brain was being shocked or electrocuted. Dr. Ambrose referred to these sensations as brain zaps. And the brain zaps caused brief periods of paralysis. Not only that but Fluphenazine-induced dystonia, which caused my body to involuntarily strike odd poses. Dr. Ambrose told me not to give much thought to any of the intensely-painful-albeit-harmless side effects. He assured me that the side effects were normal for someone with such an unfortunate psychological disposition. I told him that I did not want to be on the prescribed anti-depressants anymore. I told him that I did not want to be on any of the six prescriptions. He said the discontinuation of the prescriptions could present an unforeseen, perhaps permanent, psychological state. So it was imperative that I continue taking the medications. If only to be on the safe side. He then promised me that any and every undesired qualia would be remedied before The Process concluded. The one caveat was that I carry on with the appointments and prescriptions. Which meant forking over one hundred and fifty dollars (out of my college fund) per week for five consecutive years. This information was laid out for me in great detail via a large laminated binder, filled with percentages that went to the thousandths place, names of anxiolytic and anti-psychotic drugs (et al.), and multi-colored three-dimensional graphs representing comprehensive meta-analysis completed by hyper-educated men with twenty or so letter-combinations behind their names.
Fifty-six… Fifty-seven… Fifty-eight… Fifty-nine…
Mom privately arranged a preliminary meeting with Dr. Ambrose. That was in November. Freshman year. Dr. Ambrose shared the general idea of The Process with Mom. Then handed her a large laminated binder. But she never opened it. She was not interested in the details. The issue seemed very simple to her. Something was wrong with me. And Dr. Ambrose could help.
So she signed my name on the enrollment form. Without my consent.
Mom told Dad about her private visit with Dr. Ambrose that evening in the living room. I listened from around a corner. She went on and on about how slick Dr. Ambrose’s pitch was for The Process. And how someone with his level of confidence could not be wrong.
Dad did not respond. Perhaps because he was not listening.
Whenever I asked if I could see the laminated binder, Mom pulled it close to her chest, showing her teeth.
I had not slept in over a month. So I counted all through the night.
Mom was severely mistreated as a child. She would sometimes act out traumatic experiences from when she was small. There was one she came back to more than any other, which featured her and her mother. It went something like this: ‘Love, this scar here on my forehead wasn’t from bumping into the doorframe like I told you before.’ ‘It’s not?’ ‘But now I feel like it’s safe to tell you the truth about it now since we are far away from him. Safe inside the cab of this tractor in some cornfield where he can never find us.’ ‘I don’t know what you’re saying, mom.’ ‘What do you mean you don’t know what I’m saying?’ ‘What was it from then? The scar, I mean.’ ‘Him, love. He went whack like this (slap-slap!) with the handle of the rake. The one in the garage. You know which.’ ‘He went (slap-slap!) like that you’re saying?’ ‘Like that, sweetheart. Just like that.’ (soft sobs) ‘Oh, dear, please don’t cry. Why are you crying? Don’t cry, love.’ (sobbing) ‘I don’t… want to… say.’ ‘I’m here, love. You can tell me. Anything you like. I’m your mother. You’re safe. Nothing can ever happen to you as long as I’m here.’ ‘That’s… that’s not… true.’ ‘It is true. I promise it.’ (sobbing) ‘Tell me, love. Mom’s here.’ ‘Because… he hurt… me too.’ ‘I don’t think I understand what you’re talking about.’ ‘What is there not to understand, mom?’ ‘He did something to you you’re saying.’ ‘He did.’ ‘Did what, then?’ ‘Hurt me.’ ‘He would never. He loves you with all his heart.’ ‘He did. He hurt me.’ ‘Where, then?’ (sobbing) ‘Worse than this here on my head?’ ‘Worse… than that… yes.’ ‘Where?’ (sobbing) ‘Point to where, then.’ (points to privates) ‘Down there?’ (sobbing) (schmack-schmack!) ‘Mom… please… stop hitting… me.’ (schmack-schmack-schmack!) ‘Mom… please. You’re hurting… me.’ (schmack-schmack!) (sobs) ‘Stop! (schmack!) Fucking! (schmack!) Lying! (schmack!) To! (schmack!) Me!’ (schmack-schmack!) ‘I’m not — ’ (schmack-schmack! schmack-schmack-schmack!) (intense sobs and hyperventilation).
I asked Mom about the reenactments one time. But she told me she did not know what I was talking about. Even though she had cuts and bruises on her face afterward from hitting herself and tears streaming down her cheeks. Dad feigned ignorance of the episodes altogether.
My first visit to East G. R. Therapeutic Services occurred on a Tuesday. In November. Freshman year. I was told many things that Tuesday. Such as how it was required that I have my head shaved at the beginning of each quarter so that electrodes could be attached to my head. An EEG was to be performed. Electroencephalography. Which, I learned, was an electrophysiological monitoring method used to record electrical activity in the brain. (In my case, a very sick brain.) East G. R. was to record my brain’s electrical activity for one twelve-hour session per quarter. The five-point canvas restraints would be present. And an intravenous sedative would be administered in order to mitigate, according to Dr. Ambrose, The Very Possible Likelihood Of Mind-Loosening States Of Prolonged Boredom.
I made it a point to emphasize my fear of sedatives. ‘What if I never wake up? I would like to not have to worry about that kind of thing.’ ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Fred.’ ‘And yet I’m worrying.’ ‘It is imperative to The Process that we depress your level of consciousness. This is to avoid adverse effects.’ ‘I am hearing what you are saying. But I would rather not. Really.’ ‘You can trust me. You aren’t the first person to have this done, and you most surely will not be the last.’ ‘For me, personally? I would rather not take part in this if that is all right.’ ‘You know what the best part of the procedure is?’ ‘…’ ‘You get to maintain your very own independent oxygenic control.’ ‘…’ ‘And not only that but you will also retain all cardiorespiratory function. How does that sound? Not too bad, eh?’ ‘…’ ‘That is a lot of control if you were to ask me.’ ‘I have heard of stories where people never come out of it.’ ‘The stories are true. Absolutely. But the thing about it is this. You won’t be put under. Only depressing the consciousness. Nothing else. You will be coherent.’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Trust me. You have to.’ ‘Can I be honest?’ ‘Absolutely you can.’ ‘I don’t think I want to. It’s nothing against you or anything. But I just don’t want to die like this.’ ‘Please don’t make me request the jacket…’ ‘Jacket?’ ‘It’s not fun, let me tell you…’ ‘…’ ‘Trust me.’ ‘I don’t think so. It’s nothing against you or anything. It’s just that I don’t want to die like this.’
Forty-nine… Fifty… Fifty-one… Fifty-two… Fifty-three… Fifty-four… Fifty-five… Fifty-six… Fifty-seven… Fifty-eight… Fifty-nine…
My head throbbed. Phosphenes undulated with every downbeat.
Dad referred to East G. R. Therapeutic Services as The Stupor LLC. These Institutions Of Inefficacy Numb You. They Reduce You To Mere Data. To Blips On Their High-Quality Displays.
Dad could not speak. But he wrote extensively. The whole upper-left quadrant of his head was missing, including his eye. The absence of a quarter of his head had to do with a childhood incident. One spring day his mother decided that he was not real anymore. She convinced herself that her then five year-old son was a holographic projection. According to her private journal, strange faceless men in mint-green HAZMAT suits and masks abducted her one evening. These strange men then proceeded to inject an ectoplasmic-like substance into her frontal lobe via a turkey-baster-sized syringe. She wrote that a male infant appeared before her eyes some eight and a half months later. Hence Dad-as-holographic-projection. And she wanted it gone. So she retrieved Grandpa’s full-size industrial-strength long-handle digging shovel from the single-car garage, then fastened her son to the ironing board in the kitchen with an orange eighty-foot power extension cord, gagged him with his own dirty underpants, and began plunging the aforementioned shovel into his skull, repeatedly, until at last, the upper-left quadrant had been entirely severed, falling to the kitchen floor with a thud and his eye rolling under the inoperative banana-yellow SMEG refrigerator. She called her husband immediately after with victorious laughter, bragging that the damned thing was finally gone. She hung up the phone and danced happily around the kitchen humming a little ditty.
Only it was not gone. It was still there on the ironing board, half dead, crying out of its remaining eye.
Grandma was writing in her journal when Grandpa arrived at the house with the authorities. Dad was released from the ironing board by an officer and given a sucker and a bag of ice. Then he was taken to live with a married couple on a farm out of state somewhere. Grandpa never heard from Dad again.
As for Grandma, she was escorted to St. Bigham’s Mental Hospital across town in a straitjacket and spit-hood. She was to have no visitors until she had been properly examined and diagnosed.
Grandpa received a formal letter in the mail some time later from St. Bigham’s. An update on Grandma. It described her diagnosis as Demonstrating Patterns Of Severe Intracranial Anomalies As Well As Other Complications Far Too Complex To Draw Out Here. Grandpa was shattered. One neighbor told the authorities they could hear Grandpa weeping in the middle of the night. The phrase the neighbor used to describe his weeping was An Utter Sub-Mammalian Genus Of Abject Disconsolation.
Grandpa called St. Bigham’s dozens of times. But each time he was told he could not speak with his wife. So he started drinking.
Grandpa received a second formal letter in the mail three weeks later from St. Bigham’s. This one informed him that his wife had passed away while in her second session of electroconvulsive therapy. The letter made a point to assure Grandpa that his wife most certainly did not, in any way, convulse violently, foam at the mouth, or slip into a state of psycho-motor immobility prior to her death. The letter went on to say that she called out for her husband over and over, wanting for him to hold her and rub her head. Then she was no longer.
But so Grandpa, having lost his son and wife in one fell swoop, figured there was no real reason to go on. So he threw himself from the third floor of his home onto the concrete sidewalk below.
Grandma and Grandpa were buried together under an inscriptionless tombstone.
Dad had nightmares of the shovel for years and years.
I could not remember the last time Mom had visited me at East G. R. It was possible she had not visited me at all. The previous three or so years had been a blur. The only person I recall visiting me was Dad. Two years ago. A few days before he fled the country. After he heard that there was a warrant issued for his arrest (an incident involving a high-powered blow-torch and the neighbor’s Goldendoodle), he fled to a small town in Angola and changed his name to Ellipsis Regalia, writing in a letter to Mom several months later that it was the most appropriate name for him phrenologically. Dad never addressed a single letter to me personally. Each one was addressed to Mom. The letters sometimes contained cash. But each letter included scribble-sketches of himself with a long-haired creature latched onto his back. The title A Meretriz Nomeada Tristeza was scrawled above the creature’s head. The creature’s hair became longer and its expression more horrifying with each subsequent letter. The letters, according to Mom, were sent with more infrequency over the next few months. Until they stopped arriving altogether.
Thirty… Thirty-one… Thirty-two… Thirty-three… Thirty-four… Thirty-five… Thirty-six… Thirty-seven… Thirty-eight… Thirty-nine… Forty… Forty-one… Forty-two… Forty-three… Forty-four… Forty-five… Forty-six… Forty-seven… Forty-eight… Forty-nine… Fifty… Fifty-one… Fifty-two… Fifty-three… Fifty-four… Fifty-five… Fifty-six… Fifty-seven… Fifty-eight… Fifty-nine…
There were just a few more minutes remaining in my appointment. The head-pain had receded slightly. I found myself halfway lucid despite the intravenous sedatives. I squeezed my eyes shut. Small emotionless tears streamed down my cheek onto the maroon-colored leather headrest behind my ear. Then I thought for a while. I have a 4.0 GPA in school. There is a solid chance that I get admitted into any college of my choice this fall. I cannot, will not, be reduced to mere chemical reactions. I am not that. I am an intricate thing. With preferences and opinions. I may want to study biophysics. Maybe poetry. I do not know yet. I am not a computer. Despite these pixelesque phosphenes. I am not some monitor. Nor am I a number to check off on a clipboard. I am not a test subject. Nor something to poke and prod with a scalpel. I have feelings. Complicated ones. Confused ones. Unexplainable ones. I get angry sometimes. I have been known to cry on occasion. I have a decent smile. At least I like to think so. I have thoughts and pictures in my head incapable of being outlined by any scientific method or technological advancement. I am not a variable in some math equation. I believe in fate. The color blue is beautiful. I have thick hair if I grow it out. My favorite number is fifteen. I own three or four pairs of shoes. But I only wear two of them regularly. I am fair-skinned. I get nervous easily. My family is twisted. But my family is no indication of who I am. I have thoughts. I cannot be sure what I am. I have anxiety. I get nervous easily. I sometimes feel what Dr. Ambrose has called De-personalized. And most of the time De-realized. But I exist. I know. Inside here. Somewhere. Somehow. And I have cares. I do. I really do. I have cares.
‘Fred? Frederick, can you hear me? It’s Dr. Ambrose.’ ‘…’‘Fred, I saw your eyes open just there. Please.’ ‘…’ ‘Thank you. Now — ’ ‘It’s nothing against you. But I would like to leave.’ ‘And you will. You will, but first, a few questions.’ ‘…’ ‘How does that sound?’ ‘…’ ‘I must ask that you quit trying to bite on the IV. These low-level anesthetics are essential to The Process. All of this was explicitly laid out in the packet at the bottom of page twenty-one. Did you read that part?’ ‘I would like to leave.’ ‘I am afraid that is not possible until you first answer these questions here on my clipboard.’ ‘…’ ‘Fred? Frederick? Listen to my voice. Are you listening? You have to stop throwing your head side to side like that. A large vein is bulging down the middle of your forehead that was not there a moment ago. You are not indicating to me that you understand. You are resisting. Now please. Relax.’ ‘…’ ‘To be absolutely frank Fred… are you listening? I do not want to have to dispatch nurses to restrain you further. I do not want that. I trust you don’t either. My wish is for this to go over smoothly.’ ‘I am not some science experiment.’ ‘All I would like to do is ask you a few questions concerning your current prescriptions.’ ‘…’ ‘For example, the Venlafaxine. I wanted to ask if it was still working. As in if you feel that it is doing its job.’ ‘My family is no indication of who I am.’ ‘Remember that one? It was the first one I prescribed to you at the beginning of The Process.’ ‘My family is no indication of who I am.’ ‘I will read you a few of my notes from our last visit. How does that sound?’ ‘I am an intricate thing. With preferences and opinions.’ ‘Quote. The Venlafaxine seems to be doing its thing. The generalized anxiety in Frederick, known here at East Grand River Therapeutic Services as patient IE 49302, has been mitigated to such a degree that I, Dr. Ambrose, can safely say, without a doubt, that progress is being made. Although not without a few minor issues. But getting there. It is crucial that I, Dr. Ambrose, now explore methods of treatment for a number of unforeseen adverse effects that have developed in IE 49302, such as nausea, severe head-pains, and symptoms of dysmorphic behavior with regard to said patient’s privates (et al.). Unquote.’ ‘…’ ‘Fred?’ ‘…’ Frederick? Were you listening?’ ‘I would like to go home. My appointment is technically over.’ ‘We are making progress. Just bear with me a moment here.’ ‘…’ ‘Did my personal notes ignite any memories concerning the Venlafaxine? I would also like to ask a couple questions concerning the other prescriptions as well. For example the Fluphenazine and Sertraline? Remember those?’ ‘…’ ‘I can read a bit more if that would help.’ ‘There is nothing wrong with me. I want to leave.’ ‘I think we are getting somewhere. Would you like to elaborate on that?’ ‘…’ ‘…’ ‘…’ ‘I am being forced to be here. I do not want to be here anymore.’ ‘But you do admit that you have unresolved issues.’ ‘I do not have any issues.’ ‘I can share them with you if you would like.’ ‘…’ ‘I just want to help.’ ‘…’ ‘Here, tell me if any of these sound familiar. These are a few more of my notes. Quote. Nausea, severe head-pains, signs of dysmorphic activity with regard to said patient’s — that’s you — privates, neuropathic pain in cranio-interior — likely within the frontal lobe according to 49302’s description, psychogenic non-epileptic seizures, and what 49302 named a few years back as The Mad Sadness. Unquote.’ ‘…’ ‘Any of this ringing the mental bell at all?’ ‘I would like to go home. And I want you to get this IV out of my arm. I do not want to continue with this anymore.’ ‘But first, were those or were those not your words?’ ‘…’ ‘…’ ‘…’ ‘Stop biting at the IV! Frederick! Stoppit!’ ‘I am not a lab experiment.’ ‘…’ ‘…’ ‘Did you just spit in my face?’ ‘…’ ‘…’ ‘On page seven seventy-four, third paragraph, it states I am free to leave whenever I feel. And I feel like leaving. Right now.’ ‘It does indeed. You are correct. But I must warn that that it is dangerous. Fatal, even, to do so at this juncture. These medications have certain effects on your body. But again I must reiterate too how essential they are. They are working to your benefit.’ ‘I want out.’ ‘Venlafaxine?’ ‘…’ ‘For anxiety.’ ‘…’ ‘What about Fluphenazine?’ ‘…’ ‘Anti-psychotic.’ ‘…’ ‘Now you must remember Sertraline, surely.’ ‘…’ ‘Dissociative Identity Disorder. The Ramelteon, I know, should have helped with the sleeplessness. Did it?’ ‘I do not have a disorder.’ ‘The Ondansetron? How is the nausea?’ ‘…’ ‘Does your life appear absurd, Fred?’ ‘…’ ‘Ha-ha! Bad joke, bad joke, I apologize.’ ‘…’ ‘And the Phenytoin? What about that one?’ ‘No seizures, no. Can I leave now?’ ‘Wonderful!’ ‘…’ ‘…’ ‘I do not feel well.’ ‘Would you mind sharing your side of the story of why you are anxious all the time?’ ‘I am going to be sick. Let me go to the restroom.’ ‘Your mother told me what she thought it was from. But I want to hear it from you.’ ‘I need to use the restroom. I am going to be sick.’ ‘Can I have your side of the story? I want to hear why you think you’re so anxious.’ ‘I am going to vomit. And I am getting warm. Very warm.’ ‘Then you will tell me your side? After you return from the restroom?’ ‘I cannot breathe very well. I can feel my face flushing.’ ‘Let me see. It looks as if your breathing is normal from here.’ ‘The restroom is where I need to be. I am going to be sick. Get me out of this chair.’ ‘Forgive me, but I just do not see any of what you are currently describing.’ ‘Get me out of this chair.’ ‘Then your side of the story?’ ‘…’ ‘…’ ‘…’ ‘Fred, please, do not nip at me. These restraints are tight. I am doing my best to un-fasten them.’ ‘…’ ‘…’ ‘…’ ‘Fred. I do not understand. Please stop spitting at me. Please do not force me to call for back up. I do not want to. I trust you understand that. But you may force me. So. Please. Stop spitting.’ ‘I have not spit once.’ ‘…’ ‘Get me out of this chair.’
Teen… Eighteen… Nineteen… Twenty… Twenty-one… Twenty-two… Twenty-three… Twenty-four… Twenty-five… Twenty-six…. Twenty-seven… Twenty-eight… Twenty-nine… Thirty… Thirty-one… Thirty-two… Thirty-three… Thirty-four… Thirty-five… Thirty-six… Thirty-seven… Thirty-eight… Thirty-nine… Forty… Forty-one… Forty-two… Forty-three… Forty-four… Forty-five… Forty-six… Forty-seven… Forty-eight… Forty-nine… Fifty… Fifty-one… Fifty-two… Fifty-three… Fifty-four… Fifty-five… Fifty-six… Fifty-seven… Fifty-eight… Fifty-nine…
Short rapid breathing. I could not help it. A burning lingered behind my breastbone. Sharp pains carved into my temples, pulsating steadily. A sharp acidic taste bubbled up into my throat. Nausea. Then the world suddenly appeared unreal. My thoughts and perceptions did not feel like my own. Everything was deconstructed into vague unfamiliar shapes and colors. Everything was alien. I was lost. Without reference. There was no awareness of Mom. There was no awareness of East G. R. There was only me. Thoughts of people and words seemed inherently false. I was the only thing that existed. Me. It was as if the universe had put on some elaborate disguise to hide itself. From me. Then I was overcome with the feeling that it was only a matter of time before the universe revealed its True Self. My mind fragmented into multiple levels of fear and anxiety. I was all that was. Alone. Confused. Afraid. Anxious. Afraid. Confused. Alone. Me.
Dr. Ambrose pressed a gray button on the side of the roll-in medical-chair, which returned me to an upright position. He helped me up and guided me by the arm toward the white restroom door, rolling the infusion pump close behind.
I wanted to die. I silently wished for my body to cease all function. Only without the pain. To softly slip into a state of insentient indifference.
I thought of the human body’s desire to live. How every cell and chemical process frenetically strives to satisfy this desire. And but then I thought about how strange it is that the human mind (contingent upon these very chemical processes) can, at the same time, engineer metaphysical concepts that annihilate the body’s desire. A paradox. No. A blatant contradiction.
‘Can I trust you not to pull your IV out while you’re in there?’ ‘…’ ‘Can I trust you, Fred?’ ‘…’ ‘Frederick, please. Why did you slam the door in my face? It was a simple question.’ ‘…’ ‘I will be back shortly with your lunch. I trust you, Fred.’
I had one dream, the same dream, every night during the summer of sixth grade, which featured a barn, and I was standing in between Mom and Dad inside the barn, each of us silent, their faces expressionless, the tone of something impending, then out of nowhere they suddenly turn and begin sprinting in opposite directions, and I’m just standing there, trying to watch them both simultaneously, sadness infiltrating every cell as I try to determine which parent to chase after, but realizing that to chase after one results in distancing myself from the other, which then brings about some kind of paralysis that I cannot shake, and so I fall to my knees, forcibly driving my head into the cold stone manure-infested ground, crying out for Mom and Dad only to hear their chuckles fade as they make their escape.
He wore Adidas. She was barefoot.
There I was. In the bathroom. Catatonic. Counting the seconds. Rocking Hasidically.
I found out I was a bastard on a Friday in November. Freshman year. Mom told me in a fit of rage. I came through the front door after school. And she turned to me. ‘Oh, and by the way, dear, you’re a bastard, if you didn’t know! Your dad here didn’t want me spilling the metaphorical beans, but it’s true! You come from the lowest form of initiation into this world! It’s nothing against you, honey, no. It’s him! See him over there? He didn’t want me telling you! But see this ring on my finger?! This one right here on my ring finger?! It’s not really a wedding ring! Ha-ha! It was my mother’s! I stole it from her when I ran away! Your dad and I have been keeping this from you your entire life, trying to pretend it wasn’t the way things were, but it is! You’re scum in the eyes of the world, and it is all your dad’s fault! So go ahead, love, thank him right now! Go on! Do it! I want to hear you thank him right now! I want your dad here to know that it is all his fault, and now, because of it, you have to live your stupid shameful pathetic meaningless life knowing that you are a product of this… this… this no good worthless loveless maimed twisted and contorted creatus!’
I cannot decide if I am alive or dead.
It was a Monday in November. Freshman year. I sat on the edge of my bed and tried to hold my breath forever.
One… Two… Three… Four… Five… Six… Seven… Eight… Nine… Ten… Eleven… Twelve… Thirteen… Fourteen… Fifteen… Sixteen… Seventeen… Eighteen… Nineteen… Twenty… Twenty-one… Twenty-two… Twenty-three… Twenty-four… Twenty-five… Twenty-six…. Twenty-seven… Twenty-eight… Twenty-nine… Thirty… Thirty-one… Thirty-two… Thirty-three… Thirty-four… Thirty-five… Thirty-six… Thirty-seven… Thirty-eight… Thirty-nine… Forty… Forty-one… Forty-two… Forty-three… Forty-four… Forty-five… Forty-six… Forty-seven… Forty-eight… Forty-nine… Fifty… Fifty-one… Fifty-two… Fifty-three… Fifty-four… Fifty-five… Fifty-six… Fifty-seven… Fifty-eight… Fifty-nine… One… Two… Three… Four… Five… Six… Seven… Eight… Nine… Ten… Eleven… Twelve… Thirteen… Fourteen… Fifteen… Sixteen… Seventeen… Eighteen… Nineteen… Twenty… Twenty-one… Twenty-two… Twenty-three… Twenty-four… Twenty-five… Twenty-six…. Twenty-seven… Twenty-eight… Twenty-nine… Thirty… Thirty-one… Thirty-two… Thirty-three… Thirty-four… Thirty-five… Thirty-six… Thirty-seven… Thirty-eight… Thirty-nine… Forty… Forty-one… Forty-two… Forty-three… Forty-four… Forty-five… Forty-six… Forty-seven… Forty-eight… Forty-nine… Fifty… Fifty-one… Fifty-two… Fifty-three… Fifty-four… Fifty-five… Fifty-six… Fifty-seven… Fifty-eight… Fifty-nine… One… Two… Three… Four… Five… Six… Seven… Eight… Nine… Ten… Eleven… Twelve… Thirteen… Fourteen… Fifteen… Sixteen… Seventeen… Eighteen… Nineteen… Twenty… Twenty-one… Twenty-two… Twenty-three… Twenty-four… Twenty-five… Twenty-six…. Twenty-seven… Twenty-eight… Twenty-nine… Thirty… Thirty-one… Thirty-two… Thirty-three… Thirty-four… Thirty-five… Thirty-six… Thirty-seven… Thirty-eight… Thirty-nine… Forty… Forty-one… Forty-two… Forty-three… Forty-four… Forty-five… Forty-six… Forty-seven… Forty-eight… Forty-nine… Fifty… Fifty-one… Fifty-two… Fifty-three… Fifty-four… Fifty-five… Fifty-six… Fifty-seven… Fifty-eight… Fifty-nine…
Collin Jones is a graduate from the film program at The University of Alabama, and currently lives in East Lansing, MI, screenwriting for John Fogel Entertainment. He was recently accepted to present at the MAPACA conference to discuss addiction, metamodernism, and intersectionality in David Foster Wallace’s work.