you can find a quote from the bible to make yourself believe just about anything. after a few verses and chapters you almost actually convinced yourself to believe in god. how embarrassing.
1) you dont believe in relativity, only god.
2) sometimes you walk in funny ways, with your toes pointed in. you never tie your laces.
3) sometimes you dance in front of your mirror and wonder what it looks like to the invisible ghosts surrounding you.
4) you try to fit in. it hurts. you're not the right shape.
4a) you are square. the world is round. sometimes you squeeze in, but certain things have to be left out to make room for your sharp corners.
5) sometimes you think you are part of something bigger.
mostly you just feel stupid and alone.
6) sometimes life is so beautiful it hurts and the only way to take the pain away is to sit down and watch murray povitch. mostly it's just really boring, though.
7) you try to wonder about big ideas. sometimes it comes so easy you think you must be completely off track; you forget it before you can write it down.
8) your ass is getting fatter, fatty. you might want to start doing something about it.
9) sometimes you laugh at your dreams.
There was a girl who had seizures when she fucked, there was a boy who ate so much candy his penis fell off, there was an old man who loved kissing underage teens, there was an elderly boy who shat himself until he bled, there was another girl I swear to god with tits so big she hired two people to hold them for her while she walked, there was a girl with a tiny red sweater with a perfect smile that said come get me I’m yours, there was someone with no teeth and no gums, there was someone else with no ears and no cheeks, still there was another someone with a vagina that tasted so good men and women from all across the country would make the pilgrimage to have the chance to suck on her for just a few seconds—some when they prayed, prayed in the direction of her pussy, there was an old woman with a hip that broke on command, there was a Japanese couple that always fucked in public and called it art, there was a poet who never learned how to rhyme, also there was an athletic type that never learned how to love but fuck he could shoot hoops dude, then there was a God that wanted to try stand-up or at least see if he could shop his sitcom idea around to a few execs, over on the other end of town there was this guy that would fuck anyone in town boy or girl young or old didn’t matter, then there was a cat that pissed on anything she could find, then there was this crazy fucker that went around cutting himself—the dude would ring doorbells, wait for the person to answer, then slash a deep gash in his body and watch their reactions, then there was a man with a tiny penis who thought it was the biggest penis in the world, then there was another man who hated himself because he wasn’t a woman, there was someone who played the most beautiful piano and sang with such grace and style but was so afraid of someone laughing that they never shared it with no one, then there was someone who watched too much pornography and died of malnutrition, then there was a professor of economics, and there was a guy who thought he could rap but just sounded like an idiot, there was a goddamn lunatic with a killer’s stare that could cut right through you.
There was a pope. There was a prime minister. There was an emperor of Rome. There was a castle. There was blades of grass. There was dirt. There was a group of swingers fucking and sucking each other in the parking lot. There was a film crew. There were birds singing Motley Crue. There was a young man dancing provocatively. There was Jesus. There was niggers. There was a spic. There were crackers as far as the eyes could see. There was Benjamin Netenyahu. There was Mary Magdelen getting her pussy eaten out by God, while drunken apostles jerked off around them and watched. There was a diplomat. There was a client. There was a dead man. There was you, of course, with bright red rims around your eyes, tall but not too tall, fat but not really fat at all, a white cord attached to your digital music player running up to your ears so you could hear the sound, a shirt with a unicorn, and a leg with a tattoo of a gang that you once belonged to when you were fourteen and found the idea of being part of a teenage gang was sexy and dangerous to you.
And there was this godawful folk singer whining about lost love and death, and he was out of tune and terrible but everyone loved him except us.
When you arrived in heaven you were pretty pissed there weren't any 14-year-old blonde cheerleaders there, naked, ready to greet and fuck you. That's why you had killed yourself to begin with; why you had drown yourself in the small, gross tub up in your loft on 11th Avenue where no one would find you for 7 whole days.
You felt duped.
There was a middle-aged man named Raul at the small wooden door that said "Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted" and "No One Under This Tall Admittted". He didn't speak much English, but you could tell he wanted to see some ID. Luckily you had drown yourself with your wallet still on you. You had thought ahead.
He swiped your drivers license through the little machine, said something, and opened the door for you. Beyond the door was a small green room with a television and some magazines for reading. It seemed to be a waiting room of some sort. So you waited.
On TV there was something on E! about reality show stars and what they were doing with themselves now. Mostly they were just going on other shows about reality television stars and what they were doing with themselves now, you learned. All very compelling.
The magazines were People, Good Housekeeping, and Modern Bride; so you decided you would rather watch something about reality show stars and what they were doing with themselves now.
Soon, a man came in with a clipboard and called your name. You went to another room and waited some more. Like a doctors office, I suppose you could compare it to if you must.
Soon, another man came in. He was big and looked serious, wearing a white lab coat. He looked at your charts, and pulled down your pants to check your testicles (he made you cough), and then reached up your shirt to check your heart beat. Much like a doctor, I suppose...
"So I suppose you're disappointed about the 14-year-old cheerleaders, huh?" he asked.
"What's that?" you said, but had clearly heard him, acting as if naked underage flesh hadn't been the only thing on your mind since you arrived here in this strange place.
"You know... how they were supposed to suck and fuck you--I suppose you're a little upset that they're not around."
"Oh yes, yes. I suppose that is a little disappointing," you replied. You let a few moments of awkward silence pass. "So they're not in some other room or anything? Waiting for me or anything then?"
"No, afraid not. Sorry you had to go through all this trouble for nothing."
"It's all good," you said, laughing nervously, looking at your feet. The man looked over more charts and graphs. "So what exactly is there to do around here, anyway then... you know, if there aren't any whores, I mean?"
"Oh there's plenty," he said, not looking up. "There's The Price Is Right on television. And there's Law and Order. And I'm sure I don't have to tell you about NBC's Thursday night line up."
The man could tell you weren't impressed.
"There's HBO," he quickly added. "For free, all of them--east, family, all the HBO's, even HD."
"Well that's pretty good, I guess," you said, trying not to hurt the man's feelings. You let more awkward silence pass. You could tell there was built-up tension between the two of you now.
You had no idea why exactly.
"Look, I'm sorry there's no fucking hot barely legal sluts here to cater to your every deviant little sexual fantasy, okay? I just don't believe in it. Women aren't these little objects here for your pleasure, man. They're fucking people. This isn't the fucking 19th century, asshole. Fuck you, you goddamn rapist. Ever read fucking Valerie Solanas? That shit will change your life. Get the fuck out of my office, you goddamn piece of shit."
"Whoa, hold on a second..." you tried to interject.
"No. Fuck that, I'm not going to sit here and listen to you backpeddle and say, 'oh I didn't really want to' blah blah, 'i respect women', 'i had a poster of Gloria Steinem on my wall in college' bullshit. I don't want to hear it, you fucking racist."
"Racist? Where does that come from? Give me a break."
"Don't change the subject, asshole. You know I'm right. Get the fuck out of here and don't come back."
You decided not to argue with him, not worth it, you thought. Who was he to judge you, fucking prick, you thought. But you weren't quite sure if you'd just got kicked out of heaven, or just out of this crazy man's office. And did you just get lectured on feminism by God? Or was he just some old office assistant with a chip on his shoulder?
You couldn't be sure.
The only thing you did know was that it sure would be nice to have a tiny little blonde girl with her pretty little mouth wrapped tightly around your medium-sized cock right about now. That you were sure of.
For now, though, it was the afternoon and you would have to settle for either Montel Williams or CNBC.
The market was up today, they said... on strong economic news from the manufacturing sector. General Motors had exceeded third quarter earnings estimates. Up 46 cents a share.
So it goes.
We were going to the stupid jock party because you thought Sara would be there (she was the black-haired girl who looked like Uma Thurman with larger breasts); and you told me if I went you would buy my cup for me. It was at a fraternity, with many ugly college boys in backwards baseball hats and shirts with Greek lettering and subtle homoeroticism.
When we arrived Sara had already left (our friend told us she had gotten her period unexpectedly and was not wearing underwear. Understandable, we thought), so we walked around for a few minutes until we found Scott, a fraternity brother with no neck and a tight shirt that read: Suck it!. He told us a story of a fat girl he banged in the back of his pickup truck last night "for the fuck of it" is how he put it (I was the only one who caught the pun, reaffirming to myself my inner loser). I tried very hard to be amused and interested.
"How fat was she?" I asked.
"Oh, really fat, dude," he said.
"Like this fat?" I asked, with my arms spread three feet apart.
"Yeah, I'd say she was about that fat."
I looked over, all around, as Scott was talking about the funny sounds she made while fucking, and I saw that you had wandered towards a short girl with glasses and braids; you were drinking beer with her, and I heard you say something about what good beer it was, and I heard her agree. The rest I couldn't make out.
"Anyway, I fucked her, dude. Yeah, it was so funny."
"Obviously," I said. Then I drank another drink of disgusting beer from a plastic cup, and Scott walked away towards another woman in an attempt to lure her to the back of his pickup truck (Scotts pickup truck had a nickname amongst his fraternity brothers. It was aptly named "Scott's Pussy-mobile".)
I sat alone for a long time (in party time, that is), drinking drinks of beer until you saw me, and you looked at me like, "what the fuck? stop staring." But I kept staring for some reason--I think it was because you looked as lost and lonely as I did, or maybe because of my diagnosed staring problem--and you left the room and never saw me again until right this instant.
Well now it's your turn, bitch. Now you stop staring at me.
Seriously, dude. It's creeping me out.
Never fuck on an empty stomach.
If I were a font, I would be Garamond; dignified, yet humble. If I were a bit I would be a one, and long to be a zero. And if I were a dream I would be inside you while you sleep.
i repeat myself. i repeat myself.
Buzzcocks -- Orgasm Addict (opener)
Nirvana -- Lounge Act (fourteen times)
The Pixies -- Monkey Gone To Heaven
Pavement -- Range Life
R.E.M -- Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight (second to last)
Modest Mouse -- Lives (start lowering as the last coda kicks in... and maybe somehow cut out the "my mom she is a witch" part)
That's it, I suppose.
I want to think something no one has thinked before. I want to step on a part of the ground that has never been walked on. I want to not know the back of my hands like I know the back of my hands--their little veins and scars and little hairs and creases. How do you go about forgetting?