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.

The Fencing Response

A missing mouth.

Missing momentum.

A phantom frontal lobe.

Cracked teeth.

Exposed nerves,

Dangling loosely,

Bathing in blood,

Spurting out of

An open gash

On my tongue. 

"I bit it on the way down."

"You were out before then."

She said.

Elbow to the jaw
Brain matter crashing into skull

The SMACK transmitted through 

Sound waves bouncing off the

Garage walls and neighboring houses.

Blood.

Twisted pupils and irises.

Bulbs of orange light suspended

In air.

The fall.

Pavement.

Another SMACK.

More blood.

Pooling.

Forming a puddle

In a depression on the driveway.

Resembling chocolate syrup mixed

With tar from a collapsed lung.

Unconscious.

Breathing.

Spine tense,

Before gradually slipping

Into a supine position.

Sensory receptors congealed with stress.

Arms stiff,

Rising towards the sky,
Unnaturally.

Inert from the forearm shiver.

"I'm sorry, it was an accident." 

She said.

I shrugged my shoulders,

"Don't worry, I can't remember what happened anyway."

She turned away

In the direction of the orange glow

Emanating from the street lights,

Igniting the end of a cigarette with a plastic torch.

Smoke dispersing into the hot, languid air.

"Someone got a video of it on their phone,

And posted it online. It has over 15,000 views already."

"Fuck." I said

Before curling into the fetal position

And resting my head in the center her lap. 

Her delicate fingers were skimming 
Through strands of hair.
Massaging the scalp in circular motions,
My arms went up; 

I pretended to be unconscious.

Cybernated Therapy Sessions #3

Insert status symbol (here) if you need to express your social or economic prowess to your "friends" because they need to know how cool and successful you are. Because you're insecure and need validation. It's all about the validation. Afterwards, kill yourself. Rip a page out of your autobiography and slide it across your throat until the skin splits and forms a bloody smile. Because it's the only way for you to realize that the human body isn't composed of designer jeans, diamond earrings, VIP concert tickets, muscle cars, high-end vodka, paychecks, smart phones, careers, and college diplomas.

FUCKED

i’m sitting at a table

with three friends

and they’re on

their iPhones