The first time I met Bunny he had a seizure. Well, he pretended to have a seizure, but I wasn’t aware of this at the time. We were both on acid. Blissed-out, we were listening to records in my living room when Bunny suddenly began convulsing, collapsing onto the floor in a violent surge. At first I couldn’t tell if what was happening was real or just in my head. I sat watching him in awe for what seemed like forever before the fit finally stopped, Bunny lying limp in a heap on the carpet.
Weeks later he confessed that he wasn’t really having a seizure at all, but that sometimes when he’s really fucked-up he gets these uncontrollable urges to pretend he’s… you know… fucked-up. Like in a physical way. I told him I thought that was really creepy and weird, but deep down I was sort of into it. I’d heard of people doing stuff like that before—pretending to be physically or mentally impaired for the purpose of fetish or fun on whatever—but I’d never met anyone that was actually into it. It was strangely intriguing.
A couple months later it happened again. The two of us were at a house party and we’d taken a bunch of downers. Bunny was in the kitchen, talking to a girl with pink hair. Through my stoned haze I could hear his affected voice. “I have ep-ep-epilepsy,” he was saying. “W-w-when I t-take d-d-drugs I sometimes have f-f-f-fits.” Great. When the spazzing started I assured everyone I knew what to do, claiming it “happens all the time.” I had to wrestle a girl’s cell phone out of her hand to stop her calling 999. I couldn’t tell if I was embarrassed or elated.
Bunny’s weird. I like to think of him as a genetic freak who’s slowly and willingly losing his grip on reality. He was some sort of crazy child genius. Graduated university at seventeen, taught himself to read at, like, three or something, speaks Chinese—that vibe. Not to mention he looks pretty wonky—those long, impossibly thin limbs, those sunken features, that hypnotized stare—he could easily pass for someone with, you know, problems. And I mean, I’m not a shrink or anything, but my guess is that this strange behavior stems from something fundamentally wrong in that overactive brain of his. Either that or it’s a sex thing. When people are into really dark, fucked-up shit you can almost always guarantee it’s a sex thing. And oddly or not, I kind of get the attraction—the desire to lose control, to not be sensible. It’s hot. You know—no inhibitions, complete freedom, blah blah blah, insert deep meaningful crap here. It’s similar to why some people take drugs, isn’t it? To escape reality? Well, that’s why I do it anyway. But who knows? Maybe I’m being too romantic about it. Maybe he’s just retarded.
Recently, Bunny’s “episodes” have been occurring more frequently. And it’s not just seizures anymore. Random bursts of stuttering, violent ticks, falling, limping, public drooling—it varies. I’m sort of getting used to it. I don’t know… I might even be starting to like it. Just the other day we were on the subway and I noticed Bunny had this strange, yearning look in his eyes. I could tell it was coming, and have to admit, I got a little excited.
“Are you planning to, you know, do it?” I asked.
“Why, do you want me to?” he asked.
I was torn. “Maybe,” I smiled.
And as he lay there drooling, kicking, grunting and pissing himself, I couldn’t help but think he looked oddly… beautiful.
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