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What are you waiting for?
"What the hell was that?"
I rub my face, shake my head. Did I blank out again, or did I really see it.
Those faces... those smiles.
That voice...
The same as every time I'm lost in the darkest corridors of my self.
That voice.
He says I know him. He says he's always been there. But he is no god, no demon. Because there's no such thing as the toothfairy.
It's all coming back to me now. Like a bad penny or a boomerang.
I know how to catch those y'know
learned when I was seven. It's not that hard, but man you can crack your ribs pretty good if you fuck it up. My brother caught his with his face one time
we didn't get to play with boomerangs much more after that.
And the window.
I was sitting in my office chair, in front of my glowing information and sex box. Like I do 80% of my waking hours. Counting the minutes til I lose my god damn mind and paint a chunky rorschach on the wall with my .38 when it occured to me
I am not a well man.
The filthy dishes, the stinking, clogged sink, the dust bunnies amassing armies, the $400 sunglasses, the parade of mouseturds from my recently discarded teaspoon to my cereal bowl, the stink...
same dirty laundry and moldy come stink. Like cheese-garbage buggering a homeless person.
I don't even know where its coming from, I've cleaned the house, waxed the floors, pinesoled the refrigerator
and fuck me if I don't know if I'm imagining the fucking thing
so I just stopped caring. Only thing getting this shitstain of a house clean is a fiery catastrophe.
only thing cleaning my clock is an unsatisfactory wank and a mostly zinc cheap slug through the brain.
God I can't hardly wait.
It's like a hard on at christmas, or a giftwrapped stripper. Wait... isn't that the same thing?
There's a thin film of dust on everything, Like no one's been allowed in or out for years. I wonder if that same layer of filmy indignant dead skin is over me. What kind of crazy do I paint for these people when I leave the house?
Do I stink of used tube socks, liver hallatoses and dog piss? Am I the kinda guy they're sure if it weren't for a government check he'd be covered in mysterious wet spots, rolling out of a box eating pizza boxes just to get by?
...yeah, what the fuck do you want me to do about it?
I keep counting the angles in this room, this backbreakign chair, the black spots I'm pretending aren't feces on my plate, the dobs on this painting I got, the number of strokes before ejaculation
I'm just watching the clock til I lose my god damn mind
jesus christ... it hasn't happened yet has it? I'm talking about it in the future, but god I can't tell time by lookin at a clock I'd have to open the shades first. I'd have to step outside, and dare to fail again.
I'd have to take a deep imasculating, pride crushing breath of fresh air, and decide to give a fuck just to find out.
And I'm in no place for that today... this year.
