The floor is moving. It is either rising to greet me or trip me, so I stop and wait for it to settle into a flat plane. "Thanks, man," I say.
 
"Anytime," says the floor.
 
I round the corner, and the wall cabinets drop suddenly then bound back into place in a bungee maneuver for my eyes only. I grip the countertop until the performance is over. I'd clap, but I might fall. Chronic sleep deprivation has brought so much cheap entertainment into my life; it's a shame about those health problems and memory lap--…
 
Surround-sound EMF-like noise has lived in my head for years. I know this is not due to interference from secret government listening devices. No, sir. That's why nothing I do is remotely out of the ordinary and always, always legal. As I announce to the little window on the cable box every morning, no one could be more patriotic than I am. Kill more terrorists and buy more stuff, that's what I say.
 
To the usual ear ringing, the chimes of harmony spheres have been added, mixed up front and to the right. If I listened to the constant stereophonic white noise and the pitch changes of the dextral chimes, I'd never hear anything else. The boss would ask me to fix his computer, and I would only see lips moving. "I'm sorry," I'd say, "the voices in my head were so loud I didn't hear you." I don't really feel like polishing up my résumé and starting at the bottom again, so I ignore the noise. And the voices.
 
Don’t worry; the voices don't give me lists of people to kill. I created those lists with no help from them. The voices rarely have clarity, sounding as they do like a television pissing nonsense into the air from the next room. It's like being the wallflower at a crowded, albeit muffled, party. A variety of vocal ranges rises and falls, with a bit of laughter louder over here or a snatch of bebop swirling up over there. Only occasionally is a full sentence heard before the speaker blends back into the din. No one screeches "Bohemian Rhapsody" karaoke. No one silences the room by confessing his abiding lust for Dossie Seahorse, the inflatable pool toy. It's a boring party. Needs mushrooms.
 
I don't mind the voices. The vertigo just adds a little slapstick to the day. But the olfactory hallucinations provide the unsettling feeling of having one foot in a parallel universe. A stinky parallel universe. Would that the scent of soft puppies, just-baked bread or fresh gun oil tickled my brain during these times. But, no. For some reason these phantosmias incorporate such winsome fragrances as bloated road kill, infected canine anal glands, trench latrine, and the ever-popular bouquet of ashtray. If I were (more) paranoid, I'd be checking in with those around me: "Are you sure I don't smell like I've been sprayed by a tom cat and rolled in unprocessed sewer sludge? You'd tell me, right? Right?" Fortunately, I have someone at home who wouldn't hesitate half a second to inform me that I smell like putrefied deer intestines and will not be allowed inside the house without a hose-off.
 
Depending on whose statistics you believe, I'm only one of many millions of exhausted Americans. We race around, cramming more projects into our days and working overtime without actually increasing productivity. We treat an essential survival need like a luxury, stealing hours from sleep to keep up with crucial life events like Dancing with the Stars. We throw back more caffeine while gradually losing the ability to deal with the small stuff like waiting in line or that dick in the Hummer who cut me off so he could poke along like an elderly drunk while yammering on his goddamned cell phone. I hate that shi-- um, where was I? Oh, right, we're becoming a nation of sleep-deprived rats in a cage, sucking down energy drinks called "Monster." (I'll let you sort out those implications.)
 
If we are metamorphosing into a country of stress cases running on fumes, what do we do about it? Oh, who am I kidding? I mean "me." What are we going to do about me? I could stop being obsessive about earning high grades in school while working long hours, become a better time manager, and go to bed at a human hour.
 
Nah. I'm thinking drugs. Drugs for the pain, drugs to stay awake, drugs for improved memory and cognition. I'm an American, damn it, and I demand more drugs. Get busy, Glaxo. Nine out of ten voices agree that drugs are the answer.