Not A Good Person.

I have the ability to make someone upset when I say, "have a good day," and mean it.

Convienent

At work, the razorblades are across from the pens, paper, spiral notebooks, and art supplies in aisle 12.

A Piece of Literature About Love

Someone told me, "Yo, Mv. We gettin' you some pussy tonight. There's these hot bitches comin' ova tonight to da crib. We hookin you up. WE GETTIN' YOU LAID! WE GETTIN' YOU SOME HOT ASS PUSSY! Y'all need it bro. You pick the bitch tonight. We'll make it happen. We got your back bro. We tight nigga."

Then came in and gave me a handshake, which turned into a hug, (but that someone would like me to clarify that it was "no homo, just a sign of respect.")

I wanted to say, "Thank you for the offer. I really appreciate you trying to get me some pussy, but I'm not really looking for that right now...no homo."

But instead nodded my head and said, "Yeah, totally. It's all about the pussy." then came in gave that someone a handshake and a hug (no homo.)

I stayed at da crib for another twenty minutes before I made up an excuse about my aunt needing help at the house with the laundry and dishes because she broke her foot the other week.

"Yeah man, shit sucks. Sorry maybe another night."

Someone says, "I feel you bro. HaHA, just means more PUSSY FO' US. AND HENNY! HAHA!" and smiled.

"You enjoy that. Peace dude"

"Later bro. I'll hit you up tomorrow."

We came in and gave each other a handshake, which turned into a shoulder bump, and then a hug, (for the last time, no homo.)    

Then I got into my car, drove home, and spent the night in my bedroom at my aunt's house alone, but not alone because I spent the rest of the night talking to someone else on the phone about all my failed sexual encounters, which was every sexual encounter. .

Walk A Day In My Underwear: Yellow, Blue, Mint Green Polka-Dot Cotton Disco Boyshorts (Underwear Series Project #1)

I want to run a marathon.

I want to dance on the top of my bed listening to Donna Summer alone in my room on Youtube. Or maybe with the boy I have a crush on. Ruining the folds on the bed with rhythmic steps, and chaotic choreography, while I swig glasses of white wine sprinkled with molly, and pull all the black heads out of the pores on my nose with nasal cleansing strips.

I want to jump off a cliff. Not because I'm suicidal, but because I want to learn how to fly. I mean, doesn't everyone? Not all of us have the time or the money to learn how to fly a plane at this point in our lives; most of us are just trying to get from point a to point b, and have fun while we are doing it (at least I know I am.)

This morning, after I got out of the shower, I looked at my ass in the mirror. The green elastic bands lifted it up and made it look plump in a good way, which brought a smile to my face because it made me feel attractive.

Now, at work, in the office, sitting in an gray swivel chair, I feel my butt deflating. I feel the pattern of the threads being etched into the skin on my cheeks.

One of the truck drivers pulls out a full pill bottle of Xanax and asks me if I want any.

"How much?"

He looks around then back down at me and whispers,

"A blowjob."

A smirk stretches across his face exposing yellowish green teeth, this morning's cigarette, and last night's beer.

He leans in, and the smells of what he has recently consumed become more prominent.

"Sorry don't take money."

I want to become a boxer, and learn how to make someone eat out of a straw for three months with a wicked left hook.

I look down and pick up a piece of paper on my desk that said, "138 Ridgewell Avenue" and hand it to him.

"No thank you. Here's the address for your next delivery."

His smirk transforms back into a straight line, as he shrugs his shoulders, pockets the pill bottle, takes the paper, and walks out the glass front door of the office.

At the end of the day, my boss, who's thirty years older than me, with dyed black hair puts his wedding ring on my shoulder and asks me if I want to go out to dinner, a movie, a drink, and then the hotel room this Friday night.

"No thank you, I got plans to bake some chocolate chip cookies with my mother, but here's that business memo from corporate that you wanted before I left."

"Oh....ummm, thank you."

He pauses and scratches the grey stubble on his chin. He realizes he forgot to shave this morning, but it doesn't matter.

"Well, hey, my friend's got this yacht and next weekend he's throwing a party, you know. Open bar. Great seafood. Wonderful people. The crème de la crème of the rock quarry industry will be there."

"Maybe. I'll have to see. But just to let you know, I'm a vegetarian."

"Well a 'maybe' is always better than a 'no.' I'm sure they'll have salad. Come on it'll be a good time."

I don't move or say anything. He scratches the stubble on his chin again. Maybe it's a nervous tick?

"Just keep me posted. Alright?"

"I'll let you know, but I gotta go to the restroom before I leave, excuse me."

He pinches my deflated ass as I walk by with his right thumb and index finger.

I look back at him over my shoulder, and see him staring at me with a shit-eating grin.

"Just let me know. You have my number. You know where to find me."

In the bathroom, I turn the faucet on cold and splash some water on my face, then wipe it off with a paper towel, and throw it in the trash can.

I look at myself in the mirror. I see myself in a hotel room, wrapping a hundred dollar bill and his wedding ring around a strap-on dildo, and depositing the valuables in my boss's colon without any lubrication, then having the truck driver suck my boss's ass juice off the tip of the dildo. Ass to mouth.

Looking in the mirror, I see that I have the potential to become a dick too; I choose not to.

When I got home, I take my dress off and prance around the house in my underwear listening to, "Brick House" by The Commodores, as I cook Kiwi tacos for dinner. He will never get to me. These men will never get to me. Because they are the toys, and I'm the human being. Because this is only temporary. In a couple of years, they will be alone on their death beds trying to pleasure themselves with wrinkled hands, but it's not working because they can't get it up without the assistance of pills and money. I'll be the one still dancing, but not alone. I'll be the one dancing with the boy who's sensuous fingertips massage the knots out of the notches in my spine, just because, just because, just because.

We both believe in true love.

"She's mighty mighty lettin it all hang out,"

Tonight, I am sexier, stronger, and more confident then I ever have been before.

Two weeks later, I handed in my resignation from the rock quarry.

Two years later, everything I just described to you came true.

This wound above my knuckle on my right index finger is infected and is leaking yellow/brown fluids.

Please pray that it get's worse.

I will try as hard as I can to make it worse.

Goin' Nowhere Fast

Yesterday at work while I was throwing empty cardboard boxes in the bailer, I noticed a giant mechanical spider with a broken left front leg, and an abdomen empty, opened, and exposed, missing two double D batteries, which made its whole body lifeless.

It was two days after Halloween, and plush snowmen, reindeer, and santas have already replaced its ass on the shelves.

Two days after Halloween, and its smiling sewn on mouth and plastic eyes are suffocating in trash.

Right then, I made a wish to anyone or anything.

I made a wish to switch places, to give the giant mechanical spider my life, so it could do something better with it than what I'm currently doing (nothing.) I want it to experience life after Halloween. To fall in love. Get a good paying job. Be attractive. Suave. Sophisticated. Have sex. Have children. Earn medals and plaques. Get handshakes from old men. You know, actually accomplish something, instead of dragging other people down.

After this week, after this month, after this year, getting thrown out and crushed by a trash compactor is something I can actually look forward to.

But nothing happened, because nothing ever happens; both of us were still stuck in the same shitty positions.

Crying and embarrassed.

I went to my car and did some drugs and smoked a cig to collect myself because I can't have my coworkers thinking that I'm crazy.

When I got back to the deli, my coworker Ria asked me, "Mv, what's wrong?"

I looked up at here with tears swelling on the edges of my eyelids and told her about another failed attempt at love, about the spider, about how I can't take it anymore, about the surge in drug use, and about the reality of what it feels like to lose my sanity.

She tilted her head, looked at me with her powder blue eyes and said, "Awwww, Mv it's going to be okay. But you can't lose yourself in your own thoughts, and in pills. You can't change people, or how the world is. I know it seems like every time you try and put yourself out there, you get shot down. But you gotta keep going."

I started to cry, and she leaned in, gave me a hug, and pressed my face against her shoulder.

"You know, if it was 15 years ago, and I didn't have kids and wasn't married, it would be deli love between you and me. I'm sorry things never seem to work out, but I know this girl at the Duryea store who works in the deli, who would be perfect for you. She's real skinny, cute, and likes books just like you. I wish I had her number so I could hook you guys up."

We broke our embrace.

"It's okay, I'm just too much trouble. Too much emotional baggage. No one is attracted to a crazy person."

"Mv, it's going to be okay. You're going to be okay. You working Wednesday?"

"Yeah."

"Cool. You like plants? Cause I got this plant I want to bring in and give you. It'll help take your mind off all this shit. You know? Give you something to do."

"Yeah that be great. Thank you. Sorry for acting this way. I'm just so fucked in the head."

She grabbed my shoulders.

"Mv, look at me, it's going to be okay. If you let it get to you it will. You just gotta let go. You just gotta move on."

Later that night, still dwelling on facts I can't change in my bedroom, I hear the sounds of the mechanical spider's body being crushed in the back of a garbage truck. Sitting next to the window, listening. Heartbroken. Still crying.

It got to me.

Looking At The Graves As You Drive Past A Cementary

You think: "Lucky."

You think: "It's only a matter of time."

You think: "Just another thing I want, but can't have."

You think about jumping into an empty, freshly dug hole, burying yourself, and putting a sign out in front of it, which says, "Sorry. Occupied."

Then you go home, feel like shit, and flush yourself down the toilet because you don't want to be a burdened to other people.

Malnourished

The only nourishment I wanted to consume was your love, and I know that will never happen.

The only thing to look forward to is starving to death.

I Have Stopped Wearing Seat Belts.

I have stopped wearing seat belts.

When I'm driving, I hope my tire explodes, or something important malfunctions as I'm going 70mph.

Turning my car into something that resembles a crushed aluminum can.

If I somehow survive, I will ask the paramedics and emergency crews to use the jaws of life to pry what's ever left of me open, so people can see how worthless I actually am.

A New Year's Resolution Two Months Early

I am going to hire a hitman to kill me by pushing me into a moving bus, or concealing razorblades in a cucumber I'm about to eat because I'm too much of a pussy to commit suicide.

Nothing makes sense.

Nothing is starting to look more enticing then living.

I can't cope with the confessions or arguments.

I can't cope with myself.

Self-Esteem nil. Fuck up. Loser. Terrrible. An asshole. Ruining everything important. Never understanding. Narcissistic. With a low I.Q.

I am giving up on hope.

This poem sucks; it's just another way for me to ruin 30 seconds of someone else's life with my own mental problems.