What You Want to Be When You Grow Up

A middle-aged man who is wearing leopard print tights. Touching. Pumping himself in the blue haze of the computer screen, as he watches an eighteen year old in braces shove the head of a teddy bear into the moisture emanating from her crotch. It is not illegal.

A household plant neglected in the shade of the blinds, because your owner never turns the fucking light on since he is working on his night vision.

The violet hair chalk rubbed on the pubic hairs of someone you're infatuated with. It could stick to the dampness lying dormant on the surface of your lips, if only you had the courage you motherfucker.

An undiscovered planet with the most basic form of life. Unintelligent. You can be a good mother.

Hawaii? Or Alaska? Just not connected to the main land.

An eye spinning around in a socket, unfocused. Distracted and disinterested. You would rather look at a video of someone being shot in the head; the wound self-inflicted. Because idle chatter with friends is so captivating, especially when you're not connected to the main land.

Hawaii or Alaska?

A torso hanging out a window, contorting and becoming sore, eventually. Looking at the orange light reflecting off the clouds from the city located behind the mountains. It will skew any observation made about the stars tonight, never coming to a conclusion. Dumbing yourself down. Contorting and becoming sore.

A guilt trip eating away at her conscience. It's your turn now.

A board game misunderstood and complicated. Hands drunk. Tossing little wooden pieces. Gone missing in the carpet. You are losing parts of yourself that make you complete in the process of decomposition. No one cares about ruining this shit for future generations. Not fair. 

The thesis statement outlining his assertion of what it means to have a bad day.

The depression embedded in the lines of a smiling face.

A bed, which never got laid. Unloved. Meditating in the solitude of an empty room. Quiet, finally.

Medication dissolving in a nasal passage. You will clog sinuses as you pin pupils. Fuck the cops.

A missing hand lost in the ass of a male hooker. The ass lined with razorblades, he clenched at the wrong time, you unlucky fucker. Now you can really kick off this pity party right with some 7-up cake, soda, and some fucking balloons. Fingernails coated in waste. Shit man.

A murder/suicide involving an elderly couple. Channeling Chester and Mildred Welebob.

Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.


Going nowhere.You're all grown up.

The Glow, Pink Pills, and Unused Condemns

I can be a good girl, but I'd rather bite deep into your lower lip like a mother bear in love with her cubs encountering a stranger in the middle of a gas station parking lot. The pitter patter of ruby pooling in a plastic cup;I will use your blood as a dipping sauce for my french fries. I will not share any of them with you because I had a slumber party with them last night. An all night fuck-a-thon. Now, I am covering the evidence. Chewing. Burning old love letters from high school in my parents' backyard garden during the terror twilight, I am creating a forest fire that will engulf all of Wilkes-Barre, and eventually the rest of Northeast Pennsylvania.

I have been inhaling fog late at night to forget about all the terrible shit that is about to go down in the next couple of days under a crescent moon. The glow, pink pills, and unused condemns on a three-topping pizza. Are we having a party? Or just fucking around like two dogs flashing teeth and snarling? Matted fur flying into the air, I hope you get a good grip on my neck because you owe me one. 

The earth will rotate from right to left scattering my thoughts into the whirlpools of the Susquehanna. Sucked down into the Knox Mine disaster, which we have completely forgotten about. I hope the effort of fracking the layers of my head for natural gas have paid off in net profit because our water supply is poisoned.

I wish we could fuck on a bed of nails without any trepidation. I have dwelled on this daydream for a very long time now. But it's withering. Becoming nothing more than a passing thought. I am unsure of my political affiliation, so I have stop paying attention to what's going on in the world. You can call it a hunger strike if you want.

And all my animosity and paranoia is condensing into a cloud floating through the sky: Indian Summer 2012. It will capsize and sink into the vacuum of space because I'm solidifying my place in history as the loneliest person involved in this city-wide project,which is failing. Because you're disinterested in studying the capillaries in my eyes. So broken and raw, you bury your face into the darkness in my shoulder. Yawning. Sucking it all in. Sucking it all in. I am brainstorming a list of animals that might exist, and I'm sorry, but a plesiosaur isn't one of them.

Try to perform fellatio on the erect barrel of a .22 rifle. Or eat out the remaining nuclear weapons in the world. Because I'm sick of the friend zone, and you need more practice, which is why I am joining a dating site for asian women who are christians. I am neither asian, nor christian, nor a woman. I am a caucasian male buddhist in a sweat stained wife beater bucking the trend on a wide variety of chemicals, which I googled online. 

You're in love with someone else; torturing the both of us in the process of revelation. Wrist tangled in shackles at four in the morning, all you want is the solitude of modern technology falling apart in your finger tips. All I want is a body infected with infatuation, and maybe leeches.

I Am Stretch Armstrong Deflating.

I am shotgunning the words coming out your mouths:
Binge drinking.
High sociability.
Tepid living rooms and chairs
Becoming more uncomfortable
With the passing time.
Looking out windows,
No one understands brain waves;
Evolution never presented us with antennas.
On all fours,
Searching for meaning while muttering the gangster rap lyrics:
"I'll shoot y'all in the motherfuckin face with a blue steel nine
While blowin the finest trees
Click-clack in my hood and you niggas will come out looking diseased."
Not making any sense.
Slurring speech stumbling into family portraits on the walls.
Broken glass coating smiles.
Dust sticking to vomit.
Too ashamed,
Thinking of past delusions while driving reckless
In a Pontiac through a downpour of foreign limbs
Coated in grease.
Hydroplaning into the grill of an 18-wheeler.
I couldn't wait.
Five months.
I apologize for speeding in hazardous conditions
Containing low visibility.
Exhausted.
I am Stretch Armstrong deflating.
Rubber burst.
Bits of teeth rotting in bad breath. 
Drowning, 
Face down in green goo.
Thinking about what it's made of
And not coming up with an answer.
I will stay silent.
I will not move.
Spaceman sheets over my head in quarantine.
Flippant and uninspired,
The room will spin and lose definition
Until I forget the contours of the earth,
And I believe that is the best I can do
Right now.

Terrible? Sometimes.

Recently, I have been contemplating sawing my head off, and replacing it with the head of a mascot from a sports franchise or a big business corporation, or a cartoon puppet from a children's show so more people will like/believe me when  I'm apologizing for being a terrible person, sometimes.

I probably say the words, "I'm sorry ____" or "I apologize_____" at least 100 times a day.

Because I'm a terrible person who ate a box of locally made chocolate peanut butter candies in the shapes of apples + A Weekender sized bag of locally made BBQ potato chips. I bought them for the greatest/coolest person in the world, who is currently living in Washington this summer. I ate them because I was stoned and hungry at 4 in the morning, and there was nothing to eat in my aunt's house. I also got her a t-shirt and wrote her a letter. (I didn't eat it either of them— I wasn't that stoned) But I'm lazy and wasted too much time and too much money doing meaningless bullshit with people I kind of care about (okay not really), and now she's gone, and coming back home, and might not like me as much before she left because I'm a TERRIBLE PERSON who is unreliable piece of shit. Sometimes. It's a proven fact.

I'm the worst.

Multiply anything by zero and you get zero.

And I'm sorry for the times I was late in the past.  (#101)

And for eating all your peanut butter chocolates and BBQ chips. (#102)

And never sending them out in the package with your letter and t-shirt before you left. (#103)

And for driving by roadkill without even acknowledging its existence. (#104) 

And for not erasing best friends who only give a shit about themselves sooner. (#105)

And for not attemping to cure AIDS or cancer. (#106)

And for being a TERRIBLE PERSON sometimes. (#107)

I want to bake myself into a tray of cookies, which resemble nothing in particular so people that care about me will be able to hold me gently in their moist palms before tearing me apart with bleached mouths, and digesting me with alcohol stained stomachs. Afterwards, rinsing the parts of me, which got stuck in between teeth out with mouthwash. The last of my sugary shapelessness dissolving or being spit and sucked down a drain because I am a MOTHERFUCKING success. Self-proclaimed. BFA: Class of 2011. Smoking bowls at work in the cooler with a coworker who is a former crack addict; her sixteen year old daughter, our lookout.

I will enjoy baking in the oven. Watching the people I know talk in the kitchen. Not understanding words, nonplussed expression of boredom with occasional fits of laughter. I will enjoy it because at least this time, I don't have to awkwardly stare around the room at people and assault them with funny faces. I have nothing to say. Or no one to say anything to. Listening to the mechanical sound of convection humming from the oven as I turn a golden brown. It's comfortable. I guess.

Except for the plethora of frowns reflecting off the windows. And the melodramatic buzz of text messages broadcasting unhappiness throughout the room. 

I can make coffee, but I don't think that will improve the situation.

Fuck, I'm a horrible host, but I'm trying my best. Making eye contact. Smiling. Asking, "Is everyone is okay?" Mingling. And looking concerned.

But I don't clean. My room is filled with a random assortment of garbage, loose body hair, and boxes of shit that have yet to be unpacked. 

And with five people in here it's cramped.

I'm sorry, I am terrible person sometimes, but you'll have to adjust.

Because I really don't think I'm that bad.

I don't have cable.

I do have Netflix, an iPod + iPod boom box dock, and a N64 and some weed.

(I guess it's all relative.)

But please don't forget  me. 

Because everyone is a terrible person sometimes. 

I'm alright with that even though my fingers are hidden and crossed.

And I will try as hard as I can never to forget about any of you.

my future + the game of life:

I will go to college and graduate.

I will be a travel agent who will make $100,000 per pay day.

I will marry a pink piece of plastic and we will have twins, a boy and a girl. I won’t remember the birth, the pregnancy, or the sex.

I will win $50,000 on the lottery.

I will pay off my $40,000 in student loans.

I will have a midlife crisis. I will change careers (travel agent -> athlete), and make $80,000.

Someone will steal my car.

I will buy a mobile home.

It will get flooded.

But I will be insured.

I will forget about my wife and kids. They will be bored to DEATH in our orange station wagon. And I will feel bad about it after they start to smell because they passed their expiration date.

I will tear up the cardboard road spinning 8's, 9's, and 10's.  

I will retire in the plastic mansion at millionaire estates with $3,500,000. I won’t donate it to charity.

The Reason: I WON MOTHERFUCKER.

Then I will have nothing to do

So I will kill myself.

I will be buried in a plastic bag.

The other retirees will melt me down and use my periwinkle blood for war paint.

And I will think,

“Shit, that wasn't so bad.”

 

This Isn't About You

"i am sad."

Walking around with you.
Finding myself sitting on staircases
Smoking cigarettes,
One after another,
Not knowing anyone,
Apologizing for vacant
Disinterested expressions.
Assimilating with shadows,
As you perform for strangers.
I'll play with a hot pair of pliers.
Gripping each fingernail tightly
Before peeling it off with a firm tug.
Before you puke in an alley
and tell us,
"Yo take me home. I'm sick."
I never wanted to be here.

"u r breaking my heart."

I think if you went to the cardiac care center at the hospital,
They would tell you it's your diet.
Plus, we're not really in love.
Because we're not really married.
Your face is a guilt trip 
Exploiting my generosity.
And I just want some time to myself
Without the self-loathing.
I'm sorry for never being able to say the right words
to make you happy.
My tongue is retarded.

"i am turning my phone off and not talking to you or anyone today."

Thank you for being mature about this.
Thank you for not overreacting.
Thank you for not acting melodramatic.
Thank you for not posting this on facebook.
Thank you for holding me after I got kicked out of my parents' house.
Thank you for being yourself and not acting differently in front of other people.
Thank you for making me feel like a cat, slack-jawed with matted fur, a half-eaten eye, and a broken spine decomposing in a stagnant puddle between the white lines of the highway and the rumble strips.
Thank you for listening to me, instead of talking about yourself.
Thank you for never saying thank you.
Thank you for never trying to make sense of it.
And thank you for the sincerity in your apologies.

Don't get too excited or upset
Because this isn't about you.
.