A One Sentence Conversation Between Two People In One Body

 

 

It’s not unreasonable to consider replacing my skull with a microwave.

Power 10.

Wrapping my brain in tin foil.

Setting it for life.

 

After I’m done,

I will show you how to fake a smile.

How to trick people into thinking  you’re a kind-hearted happy person,

When you actually are a total shithead.

Or maybe in actuality, you are a combination of the two,

And that’s what bothers you/me the most: not having a definition.

So you and me artificially inseminate ourselves with opiates

Through our left nasal passage

And lay back into navy blue couch cushions and throw pillows,

Listening to the same thoughts on repeat for the rest of the night.

Not doing anything important.

Never doing anything important.

 

“We can make it through this.”

 

What’s left unspoken between us is:

“Maybe we won’t.”

You Close Your Eyes Knowing That They Might Not Open So You Stay Up And Sit In A Dark Bedroom Listening To The Sounds Of Your Own Breath.

You taught me to sleep naked.

Anymore, I prefer to go to bed with a hoodie on.

Never falling asleep due to a home movie with you and me projecting onto the white screen embedded in the inside front wall of my skull; neither of us remembers owning a camera.

I'm paranoid of phone calls sucking out whatever's keeping me alive
(you alive inside me)
with a fast food straw so that my corpse will resemble a crushed fountain drink cup that was already finished weeks ago.

But I still believe.

The silence late at night just makes it harder to.

302

Earlier this morning, I came in my underwear completely unconscious.

I woke up, removed my spaceman sheet, and allowed the climate controlled air to do cartwheels over the affected area, which uncomfortably lowered my dick/underwear's core temperature.

Sitting there, I thought about making a career change from deli man to serial killer, and how my first target would be a newborn baby whose face is swaddled in a plastic bag; I'm going to make a statement like a hand descending past a waistband, and it is as sanitary as a men's room stall cover with piss.

thoughts i had before bed, while trying to take a shit, and failing.

my dick smells like a decaying mushroom.

hope thousands of hands rub me out of existence with pink pencil erasers.

seems fitting to have a spider that was crushed by a napkin sleeping beside my head tonight.

imagining the crushed napkin spider coming back to life to scale my mattress, (front legs dragging the rest of the indented exoskeleton, oozing fluids across my bed, sheets, and face) poisoning me with a venom causing an excruciatingly long, drawn out, tortuous death over many days/weeks/months/years. bubonic plague style. then the spider heroically dying after it's last act of revenge.

i'm a bastard.

it's all so fucking overwhelming.
it's all so fucking embarrassing.

i cant write right now but felt i had to do something; i promise i will later tonight. (i'm not sure if i'm talking to an audience or myself.)

I like mount eerie/microphones. oh, and cat power, danny brown, grouper, modest mouse, and death grips.

High

I will collect an ounce of blood in a Dixie cup from the paper cuts on my hands, look cool, drink it, and then duct tape myself to ceiling with a opened canister of tear gas under my chin.

Document1 (Autosaved) March 26, 2013 9:37 pm

Thought about throwing a ball of venomous snakes onto a middle-aged woman wearing glasses and a sweater, and carrying a James Patterson novel as she walked past the deli counter. A taipan gets a grip on her neck, bites, and drops her, face exposed and bloated pressing against dirt covered linoleum.

Thought about people giving up handguns, and strapping up with balls of venomous snakes.

Bustin. All scales and fangs.

Smokin blunts while neurotoxins and/or hemotoxins tear up vital organs.

And we all got some shit to say just for the fuck of it.

And this is my medium/fetish:

Watching a black mamba rub its belly across middle aged lips turning blue

While crouching down with palms on knee caps.

 

Thought about serrating my gums with a toothbrush,

And using the blood for facepaint

Then going to the dentist,

And saying, ‘Yeah, I made a complete mess of it.”

 

I’m not taking a shower this morning.

Thought about smelling really bad at work,

like head cheese bad.

 

Sorry for being self-indulgent.

I have zero confidence.

Thought about helping you rig up

Instead of wasting my time

In front of the computer.

 

Yes my gums are still bleeding.

Thought about giving up because what’s the point?

You are making different shapes with your hands to distract yourself from the words other people are pegging you with.

Too lazy to bolt off the couch and jump through the window into the hands of the car hoods below.

The Phobia of Phone Calls

Curled into a "C" on the bed with the cellphone pressed against my ear, and my spaceman sheet half across my torso.

Paralytic like the bodies belonging to feet that have stepped on rock fish.

I hear the sounds coming from the receiver, but can't process their true meaning.

So I bury my face deep into the sheet to hide the fact: I'm losing my mind.

I don't want to burden you.

I just want to be there to help you change your facial expression.

Your were there, but the voice I cared about was missing.

And the words and stories you told drilled tiny holes through my brain.

Old school torture.

My stability is escaping like carbon monoxide and I'm slowly starting to lose consciousness.

Until someone wakes me up to explain to me how your going through serious shit, and makes me feel guilt for the inability to understand.

Your still on the line, telling me that you don't want to talk to me if I keep misspelling your name, I'm sorry I didn't realize.

You have to go.

"I love you"

You have to think.

You hang up, and don't know when you'll be able to talk to me again.

And I'm exhausted, which is why I pull the trigger of the gun made out of my hand, and watch the bullet pass through what's ever left of my head, and crawl into a tub of ice water with no expectations for the next couple of days.

91513

You don’t want to go to work at your part-time job.

You want to lie on the couch all day covered in blankets, watching mind numbing daytime game shows, and popping k-pins in the fetal position hoping a giant boot crashes through the ceiling flattening your body.

Hoping it twists, grinding your bones into the broken couch parts, for good measure.

Skin and bodily fluids oozing under rubber.

Five minutes pass.

And nothing happens.

You decide against taking a shower and brushing your teeth.

You decide that smelling like shit and having bad breath will help you avoid social interactions.

You decide that having social interactions when you smell like shit and have bad breath proves to strangers that you have no inner-drive or initiative to do anything important ever.

It’s important for other’s to understand this because it feels good to be honest.

You want to be alone, but you don’t want to be by yourself.

You want to be able to do something amazing, but “something” and “amazing” are such broad, general terms that are too complicated for you to understand.

So you put your blue polo shirt on with the company logo on the sleeve, and arrive at work ten minutes late instead.

Upon your arrival, you become a different person who is constantly smiling, laughing, and taking an interest in other people’s lives by asking questions about their jobs, sons, daughters, grandkids, pets, sports teams, vacations, and church functions while slicing ham, cheese, and/or salami.

Just another version of yourself to hate.

They talk and talk and talk and complain and complain and complain as you nod your head.

Always ending the conversation with, “Have a great night!”

Not really giving a shit.

More concerned with the tools you have at your disposal to kill yourself (slicers, ovens, knives, deep fryer, saran wrap + a full bowl of potato salad.)

Only to shut the lights off to go home and do it all over again tomorrow.

The daily $8.05 grind.

Teaching you to talk to yourself, because on your shift you receive no new messages.

She told you to wait because she needs time to think.

And the books you took out and studied to interpret those words have left you with a bad feeling that can be compared to a stomach ache that expands to encompass an entire body.

So you’ve started destroying yourself, instead of being patient because you are a fucking idiot proving everyone who has called you smart and talented wrong on a minute to minute basis.

Which is making you forget about how fucked your life really is until tomorrow.

Then you watch a documentary on people living in the sewers of Bogota, Columbia and realize the whiny pussy you actually are.

And how little you actually matter.

Always second guessing the words coming out of your mouth in comparison to the emotions you’re feeling.

 

 

 

Passing Time In-Between A Decision That WIll Lead To Either Happiness Or Suicide.

I stuck my fingers into the surface of the parking lot pavement in an attempt to reverse the orbit of the earth so I can go back to the four days I spent with you because my eyes are unable to make out the shape of the future without you in it.

Blurred with tears.

Of course it was a stupid idea, I am not special or strong, which is why my fingertips have been sanded down to bloody nubs reminding me of broken pencil tips.

And the tears fell into the wounds causing them to sting.

But the stings felt good. Deserved. Like someone who cuts themselves to relieve the pain.

I'm a piece of shit who has failed once again at something important.
I deserve worse.

I passed a dumpster and felt the urge to climb in, close the lid, and put a plastic bag over my head so I wouldn't have to trouble anyone with the clean up — yes, sometimes I can be considerate.

Instead, I checked my cellphone for any change in the screen but all I kept seeing was that stupid fucking clock and today's date.

(No new messages.)

I started punching the teeth out of each passing minute and collected them in an old shoe box that I will give to you when I'm ready to show you I can be patient.

Alone in the silence, I learned how to have conversations with myself.

I learned that I hate having conversations with myself.

Because I'm so fucking predictable.

And I'm causing us to both suffer from my predictability.

Whenever I have a knife in my hand, I think about slicing my tongue off, and afterwards, anyone I have ever known will form a line, come up, shake my hand, congratulate me on a job well done, and say, "Thank you. Seriously, you don't know how much this means to all of us. Thanks again."

Same shit happens whenever I use scissors.

I should have told you to wait instead of letting you drive off, I just felt bad because you said you had to do homework. And in retrospect, I know that sounds so fucking stupid.

I should have hugged you in my arms and locked our fingers together forever, if you agreed.

I should have never left that Waffle House parking lot to go back to Pennsylvania.

I should have never left you, which is why I use the dress you gave me as a blanket, and pretend like it's your body, wrapping it around my self before I go to sleep.

But like I said, I pretend: Your dress isn't you; it is an inanimate object unable to talk, kiss, or touch.

Unable to feel or give off warmth.

It doesn't get me hard.

Or love me.

Nor can I give it a back rub, and take it out to a Mexican/Caribbean restraint, after going shopping.

I'm sorry for leaving.

I don't have a religion, but I will dedicate myself to you because it feels right.

It feels good.

And good is a word that hasn't exist in my vocabulary.

I don't know what the common thread is because my thought processed is so scattered, illogical, and fucked up.

Making no sense.

You said you need time to think, which has never been a good sign in the past.

Usually means: OVER.

I fucked up, so I've been getting fucked up by not taking showers, and injecting ice water into the veins in my forehead to pass the time in-between a decision that will lead to either happiness or suicide.


But I will wait, punching seconds, collecting teeth, until my whole body goes numb.