Excerpt #1 from: The Stings Don't Hurt So Bad When You're Busting Down The Beehive

 

“This is going to be a significant moment. A change!”

Fuck that.

I am standing on the porch smoking a cigarette behind the crowd of people gathered on the stairway.

Mel is in the street about to symbolically release an orange birthday balloon into the sky.

Her hand holds the purple string attached to the bottom of the balloon.

She looks uncomfortable: shoulders hunched, face frozen in an awkward expression like a cartoon ice cream freezer pop.

Her roommate lights her up with flash photography.

“Dude, ____ this is going to be a real fucking significant. Like a breath of fresh air or something. And I have documented the event as it occurred.”

“Yeah!” someone says.

“Go ____!” someone else says.

Alone and observing, I remembered something my third grade teacher said about the ramifications of releasing balloons into the air. She said they have the potential to pop over the ocean and kill a whale.

Rubber lodged in the blowhole.

My third grade teacher is dead because of a brain tumor, and I never really liked my third grade teacher—a full year of lunch detention.

Her roommate turns around and lights up the crowd kidnapping another moment in time.

“Dude these photos are going to come out so fucking great! Yo, did I tell you guys that I’m going to be doing a photo shoot in Philly for _____ Magazine sometime next month? It’s going to be so fucking rad man. I mean I already did a shoot with some porn stars, but this could mean the big time.”

I think about what constitutes the “big time” for her roommate and think about its relevance.

Mel is still standing in the street holding a balloon and looking uncomfortable.

Real uncomfortable.

The honest kind of uncomfortable which you see in high school locker room showers.

I think about a car coming around the corner too fast and hitting her on the hip, her doing a backflip, and landing on her feet, looking around to see if we all saw what had just happened.

I think about cutting off her roommate’s tongue, gluing it to his forehead, and calling him a unicorn for the rest of the night, while someone else took photos to document this moment in time.

Her hand let’s go and the balloon hovers upwards following a path of ascension.

Snap.

“WOOOOO!” someone says.

“Yeah!” someone else says.

Flash.

I think about a whale dying.

I think about shooting the balloon down before it disappears, and ruining the whole moment.

Mel reaches the sidewalk, newly baptized.

Still uncomfortable.

I think about how I am a piece of shit, and a horrible person who should drown in a bath tub of chocolate pudding.

So pointless.

(BTW: That magazine that contacted him was actually a fraud scam based out of Philly.)

almost done with The Stings Don't Hurt So Bad When You're Busting Down The Beehive.

I'll post an excerpt tonight and another tomorrow.

Stay Brutal!

all of my accompishments can fit into a single 12x6 envelope

I keep thinking about the pair of glass automatic doors malfunctioning while I'm walking through them, slicing me in half. Out of one of my halves emerges a magician in a black suit, shiny shoes, a top hat, and purple cape, and out of the other his assistant covered in pink sequins.

The assistant poses with her hand, palm upwards, next to my body, while the magician yells, "TADA! Now onto Atlantic City!" to unfazed employees and customers before disappearing in a cloud of smoke, and reappearing at the bus stop down the street.

My Mom Says The People I Hangout With Don't Stimulate Me, Which Is Why My Life Is Stagnant.

"We should go over Kayla's and play Mario Kart. I would rather do that. You remember her MV? She went to the hookah bar with us that one time. Plus, she's hot and I want to hook up with her. Like, why do you want to paint anyway? That sounds stupid."

Sometimes I Wish We Were Eagles

I wish I could fall asleep in the notch between her arm and chest.

Instead, I pass out on the keyboard with her picture opened on my computer screen.

Gettin Wavy Off Quarts Of Iced Tea

Someone today told me that they are swimmin in bitches and if I want to get hooked up to just let him know because he's at least gettin head every night.

I politely declined.

Topp D (Stepping Into The Realm Of Meaningless Bullshit, Smelling It, And Throwing Up Into Front Yard Bushes.)

The only reason forty to eighty something customers like me is because I'm on drugs 100% of the time.

Shit, I rather be at home, in bed watching cartoons and eating rice pudding.

Another money consuming addiction.

Nowadays, I kill a motherfucker over a pound of rice pudding.

Straight up.
And if I don't pick up, you bet those forty to eighty somethings are going to hate me because I didn't save enough for tomorrow.

And haters gonna hate, except they forget I'm the one with all the fucking knives.

I'm striving to keep my 100% record.

If I had more money, I would only kill myself quicker.

Self-Esteem

When people talk shit on me, I instantly get a hard on.

All My Role Models Are Cartoon Characters

I think the side effects of being alive and interacting with people got to me.

Like, my hands have never snapped another person’s neck, or bent their fingers backwards, but they contemplate what the vibrations must feel like from mutilated limbs.

Normally I just drink soda, but tonight, I am going to knock back shot after shot of battery acid, saki, and warm, fresh blood spurting out of a gunshot wound. And it tastes exactly like tomorrow. And tomorrow tastes exactly like horse piss.

Drink up!


(image source: http://technabob.com/blog/2012/08/19/walking-dead-disney-princesses/)

Positive Thinking At 6:03am

Imagine an eighty something couple deciding to dance at their granddaughter's wedding, risking it all to creek slowly from side-to-side.

As you get older, routine choices become life or death decisions.

If one of the drunk groomsman, stumbles over his feet, or trips on dangling metal leg of a punk ass dining room chair, and falls forward into them, it's over.

Broken hips. Ruptured organs. Possible stroke. Possible heart attack. Broken arms. Bruising. Swelling. Broken necks. Internal bleeding. Tragedy.

And I wish I was an eighty something who died because of someone accidentally falling into me while dancing, especially at a wedding.

Fuckin hate weddings.

This is positive thinking at 6:03 am.

Pussy

A loose eyelash embedded in milky bodily fluids.
Red spiderwebbed and irritated around the pupil, which is permanently pinned.
Or blue and unwell,
teardrops have started to erode the skin on my face,
forming smooth lines, which your fingertips study:
Some call it the path of least resistance.
Others call it being lazy.
Some call it perspective.
Others call it sensitivity.
Someone called me a pussy.
And, yeah, they're right,
Because I am a pussy
Going nowhere.

Smoking cigarettes on Carrie's porch after work at 11pm on a Monday night, we see a guy on the corner of South Welles and Northampton. He took his white t-shirt off, and started to twirl it above his head, like a sports fan in the stands with a towel, as he screamed at the passing headlights: "I GOT NOTHIN. AWWW MAN. NO FRIENDS. NO GIRL. NO JOB. I'M COMPLETELY FUCKIN BROKE. I GOT NOTHIN. AWWW MAN. NO CAR. NO BEER. NO FOOD. CAN'T EVEN AFFORD A FUCKIN BIG MAC. N-O-T-H-I-N. I EVEN SPELLED IT OUT FOR ALL Y'ALL IN THE CARS. NOTHIN."

The shirtless guy on the corner of South Welles and Northampton crossed the street, almost being hit by two cars in the process, then disappeared behind two houses, presumably into The Terrace.

Someone on the porch says, "Shit, that dude is going to probably get shot. Too bad I couldn't understand what he was sayin, I don't speak nigger. Hahahaha."

I remain silent; others laugh.

For the remainder of the cigarette, I imagined shirtless guy who was on the corner of South Welles and Northampton coming back and strangling all of our privileged, middle class throats, one by one, with his t-shirt.

"NOTHIN. I EVEN SPELLED IT OUT FOR Y'ALL."

It's what we deserve for never doing anything important for anyone else. It's what we deserve for never helping out. It's what we deserve for never speaking up against someone, especially when that someone is a fucking racist asshole. It's what we get for always trying to keep the status quo, instead of fighting for what feels inherently good.

The path of least resistance.

"Pussy."