fuck literature

I don’t have the time or the mental capacity

to impress you with beautifully arranged words

written by other people

because I have shit to do:

I have pills to take

and I have to go to work

and I have to get out of my parents’ house

and I have to smoke weed

and I have to laugh at paranormal investigators on tv

and I have to exercise by kicking a hacky sack

and I have to masturbate if I randomly get a boner + a bathroom + enough time     

and I have to meet my family for dinner at 7 o’clock

and I have to go to the bars on Friday/Saturday nights because there’s nothing else to do

and I have to dance in the nude after I take a shower because I’m too scared to dance in front of anyone

and I have to sleep

and I have to release a variety of venomous snakes downtown in order for you to stay

and I have to get married to a person that’s kind of my type because you left, which means:

I have to grow up

I have to get a better paying job

I have to move out of my parents’ house and get my master’s

I have to stop talking to certain people

I have to grow apart from certain people

I have to grow facial hair + shave it because I’ve never had a 5 o’clock shadow

I have to buy a dutch colonial with a front + back yard

I have to get my life together by cultivating a human being(s) out of bodily fluids

I have to tell random people my secrets + ask them for advice

I have to go to a psychiatrist to get more pills

I have to take more pills so I can survive being alive

I have to take a shower so I don’t smell bad

I have to pop blackheads in the bathroom mirror

I have to purchase a hot tub

I have to drink light beer out of cans and pass out every night in the hot tub

I have to get depressed

I have to figure out why I bought a muscle car + why our house has a closet solely dedicated to shoes

I have to pretend to kill myself with my index finger because I’m terrible with life-altering decisions

I have to host backyard barbeques for family and friends so they can see + complement the little touches of clever décor (scented candles + miniature knick-knacks of pleasant, golden-brown bears in swimsuits striking poses + tiki torches + summer themed china + plastic drink umbrellas) which were put on display throughout the house by the person who was still kind of my type

I have to watch a tear drop quickly repel down an eighteen year old brunette’s face as she gags on a cock in an amateur porn video (I don’t feel disgusting)

I have to ejaculate with cautious ears because I have a family + they’re sleeping + silence + I would only have 10-15 seconds to cover everything up

I have to buy a new calendar every year because the human being(s) we cultivated grew bigger + he/she/they moved out

I have to prolong my life by eating more vegetables

I have to ingest a lethal strain of e. coli that is playing hide and seek in a fast food salad

I have to have regrets, A LOT of regrets because I’m confused and not happy

I have to die + a funeral + a burial + decomposition.

I have to not exist.

Exactly.

In middle school, there was this program that encouraged/bribed our class to read.

If we read three books in a month, we got a free personal pizza from a national pizza chain.

I read three books a month.

The problem is the program stopped after the 4^th grade.