prose 001
“Untitled”
I’ve whittled down my left big toenail to almost nothing out of malevolent boredom. The cuticle’s kind of bloody. I feel like there are parts of my body that are mad or dissatisfied with me as I am, but I don’t care. They respond to my brains’ few demands with little flippant sensory impulses and fidgets, acting in sarcastic submission when I feel bored enough to eat or feel aroused enough to open my laptop or unlock my cell phone keypad. “Bastard” various organs whisper about me. I ignore them for the most part. I want a fucking cigarette and a new pair of pants that look and feel less interesting. I don’t want to go outside because people will look at me. Even if just one bypassing stranger accidentally makes eye contact with me today we’re going to fight and I’ll wrestle them to the ground and steal their eyes and they will fear me and know that I am the LORD.
Yesterday was a pretty good day, rain and low-ass temperatures regardless. I went for a joyride down South Hampshire and saw some road kill that entertained and repulsed my brain and my gut. The way the body was mangled and the innards were sprawled along the shoulder into a nearby cornfield made me think of shitty music. I pulled out my iPod and played “Hotter Than Hell” by Kiss, then immediately knobbed the volume to “one” and made a U-turn for home. When I got there Cheryl had used her key to get in, and was sprawled across my bed with her red satin robe strewn along its edge and onto the floor. She looked awful, like she’d been crying all afternoon. She told me to make love to her and we had sex. I didn’t complain. But there’s this thing about that final thrust before she cums that scares the shit out of me. I always think, this isn’t right, or something, when Cheryl orgasms.
Earlier this evening I went to the cobbler to get a couple pair of shoes adjusted. It was like they hated me. All leather, woven tightly, and comfortable as hell, but they kept unwinding. They kept making me take them to people I don’t know and give those people my money to have them re-fit. “Bastard” they squeak
prose 002
“‘Erudite’ is a Word I Looked Up in the Dictionary After Our First Conversation About Domestic Finance”
My strongest influence is MTV Jams. I haven’t shaved in four days and think that maybe if I stop shaving altogether that I will become more proficient at writing prose. I am feeling positive emotions, and if I move to New York City I will become better at things. A while ago I walked down the street to your apartment. It was cold outside. I was wearing sunglasses and felt stupid. “This was supposed to make me feel cool,” I thought.
I met you at the restaurant where you worked and we ate sweet potato fries. Your shift started. You wanted to bartend but are a generally attractive woman and your manager made you the stand near the door selling beers. The beers you sold were a dollar more than the ones at the bar. You made a shit ton of money in tips but the girl beside you doing the same job made more money in tips than you and you felt inadequate. It seemed that there was no way to reinforce your self-esteem with respect to intense feelings of inadequacy. I said, “I saw your coworker. You’re prettier,” and tried to kissed you. You moved away from me kissing you, then you stopped moving away and let my lips touch your cheek.
You kept moving closer to me and I could feel the force of the kiss in the back of my jaw. Your feelings of inadequacy prompted sex. After sex you admitted to me that you are a slut and that your feelings of inadequacy are only resolved through sex. You made macaroni and cheese from a box and we both ate some out of a pot.
We went to Irene’s together after she got out of rehab. She stayed in her study working on a novel and ignored us moving around her house. We watched MTV Jams on her couch and talked about philosophy. “Let’s go home,” you said. “I have work at nine.” I went inside Irene’s study while you were getting ready to leave and said flirtatious things to her. She stopped writing and focused on flirting back at me. I looked at Irene’s eyes while we flirted and they seemed less attractive to me than your eyes. You came in and said we had to go, but I kept flirting. You felt inadequate and wanted to leave so you grabbed my arm and pulled me away. I resisted enough for you to notice but not enough for you to incorporate me resisting into a future argument.
We went back to your apartment and had sex. Bravo was on TV. “Top Chef” was on Bravo. I couldn’t fall asleep all the way, so I approached you and cuddled your body and you responded to me in your sleep-state. It felt good, like our relationship was a good thing. I changed the channel to Cartoon Network.
The next morning I was afraid of you because you were screaming at me. Later you screamed at me again and our relationship seemed bad. Later, it didn’t seem like that but we already weren’t a couple anymore. Later, I had sex with someone else. Later, I couldn’t have sex for a long time. I made out with a hippie. She said, “I’m sorry if I smell weird.” I liked her weird smell. She smelled like a woman that didn’t wear perfume. I was afraid of her too; she had out-of-control emotions and would get very passionate. She was very passionate about her dog. She cried on my shirt about her dog having cancer.
I told her I didn’t cry about my mother having cancer and told her that I looked at my mother and said, “it will be okay,” and that my mother’s cancer was in remission. Her dog died and she got a new one from the pound. I saw you last week with your new boyfriend at Seven-Eleven and ran away from you. Your new boyfriend likes Metal, the genre of music or something. Maybe he likes the lifestyle. “Metal”; damn. It seems like you’re happy. Or like you cheat on each other successfully as opposed to unsuccessfully, which is how we cheated on each other. You said something to me on the Internet and I responded, “I’m still in love with you. I don’t think you should talk to me because I can’t assess what you say rationally and without assuming that you want to be with me again. So please don’t talk to me.”
Yesterday, I was completely sober. It was strange. I looked at things and felt confused about them, but in a comprehensive manner. I understood the social contexts for each interaction I witnessed and felt aware that I didn’t understand things fully. I felt loose. I felt like there was something missing. Alcohol is a taught rope between people. I avoided sleeping at my house this past week because I thought the police might try to come and arrest me. I never told you what happened regarding this incident.
I thought that I was in love with you, and that I was sacrificing everything for you. I thought that I would lose everything else except you and felt okay with that. Everything except you and my cell phone are still here. “Thoia Thoing” is a song by R. Kelly.
prose 003
“I Have Distinct Feelings of Not Wanting to Know What These Emotions Might Translate To If Described to a Person or Group of People Who Have Memorized a Vast Number of Definitions in the English Lexicon”
Elena and I met in Chemistry class. The teacher was Ms Goldwater. She got married that year and her name changed to Mrs Hanson but we kept calling her Ms Goldwater because it seemed easier.
Elena’s face was looking angry at me. “What’s wrong,” I thought, but didn’t say. She looked away, at the road, and kept driving. “No Ethan,” said Elena. “No.” There was a novelty bookmark with a bible verse on it hanging on her rearview mirror. It was from her dead boyfriend’s funeral. I tried to read it but it kept swinging because of inertia. My hand moved to touch it, but stopped, then moved again rapidly. “What are you doing,” said Elena. “I want to read it,” I said. “No one can touch that,” said Elena. My face turned towards the passenger side window. The car was moving over a bridge that went over train tracks. There were just train tracks, no train. “Why is there no train,” I thought. “Did I say something wrong,” I said. I looked at Elena’s face and it still looked angry. I couldn’t decide where to look next so I kept looking at her face. “What do you want from me,” said Elena. “Nothing,” I said. “I just wanted you to know. I had to say it or else.” Elena looked at me. The traffic light eight cars ahead of us was red. “I had to say it,” I said. “There’s no way for me to respond to something like that,” said Elena. She laughed. “There’s nothing I can say.” “You don’t have to say anything,” I said. “I just had to say that.”
There were cats inside Elena’s house. It was her birthday. Birthdays are significant somehow. “I got you something for your birthday,” I heard myself say. I said something different in my head but that’s what I said out loud. “I got you some jewelry.” “Really,” said Elena from her bedroom. I took a small red bag from my pocket. “I got it in New York City,” I said. Elena came out of her room and looked at me. Her eyes were really wide. “Surprise,” thought me, “I know this expression.” I handed the bag to Elena and she looked inside. She took the jewelry boxes out of the bag and opened the one with the necklace in it. “Oh my god,” said Elena. “This is beautiful.” I saw tears in Elena’s eyes. She held the necklace up and looked at it, turning it. She handed it to me and opened the box with the earrings and began weeping loudly. “Help me put the necklace on,” said Elena. “It’s so beautiful.”
I was holding a DV camera in my hands near the front entrance of the school building. A voice made loud noises over the P.A. system. Elena walked out of the nurse’s office and down the hall toward me. I looked at her and then down at the camera. I opened the digital viewfinder. An obese girl and a thin boy were frozen inside. Elena touched my shoulder. “I have to go to class,” she said. She walked down the stairwell and I followed her. “Elena,” I said. “Wait.” She kept walking a little bit, then stopped in front of an open classroom door. There were cross-sections of bodies with small descriptions by different organs on the wall. Ms Connelly looked at us. Some students did too. “What,” said Elena. “I have to say something.” “No, Ethan. No you don’t.” “I have to say this.” “What.” “I will never forget you. I won’t, ever. When I am old and don’t like anyone anymore I will think about you and I will smile. I want you to know that. I think when I have my mid-life crisis I will think things like, ‘what would Elena like me to do,’ and do those things because I feel inadequate and self-conscious about my age, and overly aware of the looming definitiveness of death. I wanted to tell you that.” “Ethan. I’m sorry, Ethan.” “Wait.” I pressed the play button on the camera. The obese girl and the thin boy sang the chorus of “Unforgettable” by Natalie Cole and Nat King Cole. I looked at Elena’s eyes and thought about not looking at anything else ever. Elena started to cry. “Get your hand off of me,” said Elena. I looked and saw my hand on her shoulder. It was there. I didn’t remember that I did that. I let go of her shoulder. “Ethan. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” said Elena, then walked quickly down the hall and around the corner.
Elena applied for a full-ride scholarship to the University of Maryland in College Park’s business school. She emailed me her application essay and I rewrote it and sent it back to her. She got the scholarship. Sara cried because she didn’t get the scholarship. “My father is going to hate me,” said Sara at lunch. I shaved my head and moved to California, then moved back.
“Come inside,” said me. Elena came inside the house and Sparky jumped on her. “No, Sparky,” I said. Sparky recoiled and looked at me. “Sadness,” I thought. “I know this expression. And shame.” “It’s okay,” said Elena. “I like him. He’s cute.” She pet Sparky’s head and rubbed his back. I looked at Elena’s elbow. “Those are my favorite elbows,” I thought. My eyes moved a little and focused on her ass. “NO,” I thought, and my eyes moved to the George Washington painting on the wall. “Do you want to see my room,” I said. “Yeah,” said Elena. We walked through the livingroom, the diningroom, and the kitchen to the stairwell that went to my room. She walked down first. “Wow,” she said. “Is that your bed.” “It’s a futon,” I said. She laughed a little and turned around.
Elena looked at me for a long time. She didn’t look away or say anything. Staring. I looked at her and my penis became erect. I held her close, making sure not to touch her with my erection. We stood beside her car and I looked at her and said goodbye. “Let’s hangout soon,” said Elena. “Okay,” I said.
“I’m getting married,” said Elena on Facebook chat. “Sweet,” I said. “When.” “Soon.” “Is he nice. Does he treat you nice.” “Yes. He’s in the military.” “Damn.” “He ships out in July.” “Damn.” “Do you want to come over and smoke cigarettes.” “I don’t have any,” I said. “Damn,” said Elena. “I only have one left.” “I have to go,” I said. “Okay.”
I walked down Farragut Street. I couldn’t feel my hands because it was cold. “Ethan,” said somebody in a muffled voice. I looked left and saw Diamond in a window. There was a man standing in the yard smoking a cigarette and talking on a cell phone. Diamond closed the blinds. I saw blinds moving in another window closer to me. The blinds opened and Diamond was there. She pulled the window open. “Hi,” said Diamond. “Hey,” said me. “Are you going to work,” said Diamond. “I’m going to apply for work,” I said. “Oh, damn,” said Diamond. “How have you been,” I said. “Good,” said Diamond. “I am in ninth grade now.” “Damn. That’s awesome,” I said. “Do you like my blouse,” said Diamond. “Yeah, damn. It’s pink.” “Yeah, I bought it yesterday.” “It’s pretty.” “Okay, I have to go, okay? Bye.” “Bye,” I said. I walked down the street and smiled. I felt myself smiling and shook my head until I stopped smiling. I looked ahead of me and saw a black Nissan Maxima turn onto Farragut Street from the street where Elena’s mother lived. I stopped walking. I didn’t move for ten seconds. The car’s windows were tinted black. “Black windows,” I thought. The car’s right turn signal began to blink. It blinked for eight seconds. The car moved right and kept moving right and then straight until it reached the end of Farragut Street, then turned left.
We were in a booth. Beverly sat in front of me and said things like “at this company,” and “we,” and “what we are striving for,” and “what you can offer to the company,” and I moved my head up and down slightly while maintaining eye contact. Sometimes I said “yes,” and “I understand,” and “gotcha.” Eventually we shook hands and Beverly smiled and said she would be right back. I sat and looked around. There was and man and woman laughing and touching each other. There were two obese girls saying things with serious facial expressions. I looked straight, out of the window, and saw a car with the University of Maryland mascot on the license plate. I looked right and saw people assembling food and yelling things to each other. I still couldn’t feel my hands.
I sat outside on a bench. Carol sat across from me. Water was dripping off of things. I looked at my bike, which was propped up against the bench. I thought about how old the trees around us must be. “How old is the oldest tree,” I said. “Older than Jesus,” said Carol and shifted her legs a little. I smiled then shook my head until I stopped smiling.
prose 004
Andrea wasn’t sure if she wanted a bagel or a grilled cheese sandwich. She wanted carbs though, more carbs than her body could conceivably handle, she felt. I have a strong desire, she thought, to overdose on carbs. She had blacked out the night before and had sex with Robert, which she felt didn’t seem like something she would do. She wanted the carbs to absorb the remaining alcohol and so she could shit or puke away the brown-out memory of finding him next to her in her bed.
prose005
It felt distinctly like his upper right canine had been pulled and the nerve was exposed, but not in a painful way, in a subtle, funny bone tingle way that could hint to some actul nerve exposure or rotting that had occurred. He couldn’t decide if recounting Thom and Greg enjoying looking at his little animation seemed more important to him than almost laying Emily and “getting herpes” as she endearingly referred to it, but decided to try to recount them both with equal detail. Emily first: He, his sister, Lauren, her boyfriend Stephon, a ginger girl with frizzy hair, similar to the one in the Australian comedy video on Allie’s Facebook wall — “the Christian,” and Emily had been cleaning and closing up McDonald’s when somehow everyone became uninterested in the process and began flirting mercilessly, due to the manager having left them to their own devices. They threw a party. A teenage boy who seemed interested in Emily was there and brought his famished Indian child pet, to show off to her, but she was horny and wanted to “get herpes” and blew off the boy for the opportunity for her to copulate with our hero. Then he remembered the order of the events. She had wanted to have sex upstairs, but there was too much commotion, so he took her in his arms, where she felt uncomfortable, and shifted about until he was holding her like how a bride is carried over the threshold, but even then she squirmed, and he carried her down the stairs with her squirming and seeming unsure, not of whether they were to have sex, but whether or not she would stub her toe on the way to the back room. They spotted Lauren and Stephon on the way and made small talk, to seem less conspicuous, because Lauren and Stephon had bought purity rings together, and knowledge of his and Emily’s coital performance would incite and unstoppable force of attempts to stricken them with guilt, and theological reasons why they should wait until marriage, even though they had already not done that, and were horny and attracted to each other and having a good time. So they stopped and made small talk and seemed less conspicuous, then they went to the back, where they ran into the boy and his Indian again, who they promptly ignored, and traveled to the nearest guest room. It seemed like his grandmother’s house at this point, for some reason, and he could not dissuade a feeling of childhood serenity as he held Emily’s hand, dashing through the McDonald’s. His grandmother often ordered kids cones of vanilla ice cream from McDonald’s, unusual behavior for an adult, but maybe it was because of her rotting teeth or her repressed senility. He was still erect and could feel the slickness of Emily’s pussy, just by imagining it, and wondered why he couldn’t just imagine having sex with her and for that to be real. Why did they have to find a place, he thought. He wanted immediate gratification. Lo and behold, they ran into a room and found a bed. They got on the bed and Matthew looked at him with a sensual smile and started removing his clothes. Why is Matthew removing my clothes, he thought. Where is Emily, this feels uncomfortable. A bunch of men walked into the room from three different doors and his belt buckle was undone and he didn’t want to have gay sex, so he redid it. Matthew wanted to know what he was doing and why, but seemingly has ADHD and is distracted by a medium-long haired man near the door. The bed they are on is diagonal in the middle of the room, so he climbs off of it and makes a mad dash for the back door, then runs immediately into a man, who is actually Thom. Greg is with him. He suddenly finds himself sitting in the same room, but instead of the men, all of his friends from California are there, gathered in an assorted pile around a dwarfed version of the same bed he and Matthew or Emily were supposed to have sex. Katie is braiding someone’s hair and Greg and Thom are conversing loudly atop the bed as the rest of the pile either plays on their MacBooks or watches television, where there is a report about incoherent homeless people riding Metro buses. Andrew seems distinctly intrigued by this, which entertains him sincerely. Thom says something about enjoying this animation. He turns and sees that Greg and Thom are looking at a familiar artistic recreation he remembers showing to Emily earlier, but can’t recall when, specifically. The animation is of a large, colorful, repetitious landscape covered in autumnal hues and with strange, three-dimensionally shaded rolling hills, despite the fact that the actual animation takes place on a two-dimensional layer of the foreground. Thom says he recognizes the frame-rate as fifteen frames per second. He tells Thom he’s right, then does some mental math involving fifteen times three times two equaling ninety and Thom suddenly says, or maybe it was divided by ninety, and Greg is still there. Emily suddenly runs in the room with the ginger and jumps on the bed and into the pile excitedly. She seems aware that he is there and still interested in hooking up, but doesn’t want to disturb the dynamic of the pile, and so keeps talking to the ginger girl. He looks at the television and tries to decipher what the homeless people were trying to say. They wrote messages on the glass of the busses in disjointed, nearly inhuman messages saying things like, “they inside what? Cold beans I don’t know we’re another how, how ha-ha but when it comes below hollow, now!” and the like. He couldn’t make sense of it and suddenly didn’t care to when the news anchor appeared on the screen and turned out to be a really hot Asian. Her last name was Kim. They eventually cut back to scenes of him getting off the bus with all of these homeless people, and he was carrying a to-go spud au broc, and thanking the driver and trying to avoid all of the homeless getting off with him. There was a severe traffic jam and he felt himself compelled to the middle of the street to try and read the inscription from the other side. He thought maybe then it would make sense, but found himself between two large buses on a busy street, at what seemed like a red light, and all he could see were advertisements for things he didn’t want to buy like McDonald’s sandwiches and L’Oreal makeup. He remembered that the beginning of his new novel was in past tense, and that he had digressed into present, or regressed or something, maybe progressed, and that that was literarily unacceptable as far as inconsistency is concerned, but then decided not to change it too much, perhaps out of boredom, or a distinct desire to write more words. Later, he smoked a cigarette in the parking lot of the church his father was associate pastor at, and returned to the door to find that it was packed full of female clergy, also trying to stick a hand and head out of the door to air out a quick smoke. Pastor Deborah surprised him the most because she smoked Marlboro Menthol Lights, while he would have pegged her as a Camel Turkish Silver smoker. Deacon Susan was there and seemed the least rational to him. He wondered why they didn’t just stand under the awning, since the rain couldn’t reach there, then realized it wasn’t raining at all. He found himself inside walking down the main foyer, and stopped to discuss something with the Deacon sitting at the advertisement table, briefly before walking back through the women outside. From the bottom of the steps leading to the main entrance he could see Travis carrying a massive structure on his back clearly intended to make carrying a baby around more efficient, however it seemed that it stacked so high that his daughter’s head might hit some large aluminum or perhaps steal, he couldn’t tell which, piping he hadn’t noticed there before. Travis attempted to maneuver it by stepping on the handrail, causing the structure to swing around and over the lower flight of stairs, which the baby could have fallen out and onto, which scared him briefly, before he realized he didn’t care about babies whatsoever. A large truck packed to the brim with illegal Mexican immigrants pulled up to Lauren’s car in the parking lot, and it seemed that the driver was attempting to solicit something from her. He strutted quickly to her, attempting to simultaneously hear the request and scare the fucker away, but as he arrived the driver simply looked blankly at him, and he felt a distinct feeling of being intimidated. He asked Lauren what was going on and she replied nothing and proceeded to remove a large blanket from the trunk of her truck as the Mexican vehicle drove off down the parking lot. At the end of it, there was a chain preventing easy escape, but there was also some paved area leading over a median, allowing for a simple U-turn out of the asphalt hell. He looked at his sister and awoke to the distinct euphoria induced by finding oneself in an unrecognizable, well-decorated loft, with beautiful people strewn everywhere, and no recollection of what happened the night before. Everything was neutral colors: grey, white, dark greyHe had a mild hangover and looked around to find both of the ladheads, an autonomous unit formed from two eighteen-year-old girls from California drunk driving around Maryland, on either side of the room, and felt compelled to lay down near Alexus. He situated himself comfortably between her legs and looked at Kacy who was laying on the couch on the far side of the room and felt a strong sense of endearment which was squashed by the simultaneous realization that on a couch in the middle of the room lay two unconscious meathead douchebros and that his penis was fully erect. He looked back at Alexus’s face, which was neutral and then became mildly inquisitive. He stood, embarrassed, and ran behind her to a door that looked very much like a part of the wall before he opened it. A brand new world opened up before him: a dream apartment. A giant doughnut-shaped loft encompassing a large pillar, containing no traditional rooms, just areas, designated for all of the domestic necessities, i.e. entertainment center, bathroom/shower, laundry, central heating appliances, kitchen, et al. His family sat on a large couch in front of the entertainment center, consisting mostly of an enormous HD television and a 5.1 sound system. He had to use the bathroom, so he explored the space thoroughly until he found the combination shower/bathroom, which had dark blue marble tiling. He took a piss and looked around in sincere amazement at the architectural coherence of the space. Other things happened he couldn’t remember. He was in Greg’s house watching television with the lights off, when Greg’s father entered with a bunch of people, hitting the light and stunning him. There were various mildly attractive girls and he was sitting Indian style on the floor looking up at them, but was distracted by the TV and felt compelled to look at the goings on of others and the television at the same time. Jesus, he thought, this is so difficult. Greg’s dad handed him a bottle of alcohol enclosed in a plastic grocery bag, and he felt a distant feeling of elation. He took the bottle and lifted it, looking at the label, Bacardi, and placed it on the coffee table. A cute girl stood over him, looking at the television and he allowed himself to be dazzled by her for a moment before standing and moving to the main table, taking the rum with him. He was flying over some hills near a train rail and saw the residential area beneath him on his left. He headed straight for Jim’s house. He flew in through the open door and became disoriented on account of the interior being identical to the interior of Greg’s house, nearly hit the reclining chair, flew into the wall behind the television, bumped around a bit, fearing he might injure himself, but not injuring himself and flew, out of control, towards the recliner, thinking it would break his landing. The chair leaned back like a spring-action something and launched him at the wall near the stairwell, and he slammed into it and stumbled back in pain. He could hear Jim’s voice coming from the kitchen, so he composed himself and walked up to the drug dealer to say what’s up. Jim seemed surprised and a little nervous, like he shouldn’t be there. He asked Jim where everyone else was and Jim informed him that they were in the back barbequing. He walked to a broken window behind the dining room table and saw Gary outside of it on a children’s playground, swaying back and forth on a rocking horse. He pushed himself out the window, being careful not to cut himself and noticed Paul and Kelsey, with some other people, lighting cigarettes over the barbeque to his left. He walked to the middle of the back yard and everything became distinctly vague, but he thought he saw Kevin or someone just as tall and with dark hair. He found himself partying and though, pity I have gained coherence in this state (what a state!), in a Victorian manner. Why am I typing on my laptop right now, during this party, he though. There were more thoughts, but he paid no attention to and did not keep track of them. Eventually more music began to play, Joy Division, and everyone was dancing. How did this happen, he though. “Digital,” said someone. Everyone was awkward in the most endearing, still in my Junior High awkward phase way.
prose006
“Some people write thousands of words a day”
I feel disturbed by this.
prose007
‘gentrification of my intellectual group needs to occur’
i think i’m the only non-douchebag among us. my throat hurts sometimes, from smoking too many cigarettes. i don’t mean a ‘sore throat,’ but like an inflammation, that obstructs my involuntary salivation procedures. from what source do all the other monkeys attempt to derive the meaning of their existence from? humanity seems very interested in finding out ‘where it came from,’ despite the fact that there was as much geological, genetic, and ecological information available at that time as there is now. i’m interested, solely, in sexual gratification. all other forms of stimuli are like ‘nothing’ to me.
my sock drawer is filled with marijuana. i grew eight ‘weed’ plants over break. three of them turned out male. if pluto were still a planet, earth would be different. hypothetical concepts are complete bullshit and can suck on my proverbial balls. if i had ‘real friends,’ i would probably be a lonelier person.
as much as there is ounces in a pound, there are candles in a john hughes film. unsure if my last non-sequitur was poignant or not poignant. going to drink some whiskey now. this is fiction, don’t let the narrative engulf you. i have never been engulfed by anything. there are eight more sentences in this paragraph, but don’t count them. i haven’t seen my mother for a while now. she hugs me and i feel her tits on my abdomen and think ‘i derived sustenance from these tits,’ momentarily before remembering that it is socially unacceptable and situationally inappropriate to have thoughts like that while hugging a/my mother. after a lengthy excursion through the mountains of california, i saw a field of poppies in full bloom and thought ‘wow,’ for what seemed like the first time that i used ‘wow’ in the proper context.
i’m wondering at what point this piece of prose will become a novel. or if it will just keep being short prose. i once met joe pesci at a boutique in istanbul. i felt confused about him being there. i introduced myself and felt a moderate amount of star-stricken ineptitude regarding the words i said to him. my wrists seem abnormally dry, like there is something externally causing them to be dry, and not just my chemical make-up or something.
paragraph eleven: the more clichés i use in this, the better. i have ceased to question things. i don’t ask questions to anybody. i make statements about the state of the union and where the vast majority of dementia-afflicted souls travel postmortem, and no one conflicts with my assumptions. this makes me feel masculine ‘somehow.’
going to drink more whiskey.
just imagined myself as a person trapped inside of a health classroom ‘sex organ’ cross-section poster and felt strong sensations of ‘contentedness’ while imagining this. if ketchup/catsup has a designated flavor, despite the ‘brand’ it is associated with, why is that not true about colas? they’re all so fucking different.
intermittently tried dissecting a worm and wasp carcass at the same time over the course of my tenure as a middle-school student. more to come: i have found that there is a direct correlation between the amount of time i spend with seemingly ‘domestic individuals’ and the frequency at which i ‘get laid,’ and have found that correlation to be negative. just thought ‘i need to get the fuck out of here’ and deemed that phrase, ‘not worthy of literary preservation,’ via this short story.
the vatican. i have been there once, and was supposed to meet the pope, but he was busy/dying. potatoes go well with ketchup, seemingly. what clichés could be used appropriately here? how many words will this turn out to be? turnout. there has been an inordinate amount of people asking whether or not i am homosexual recently. it seemed to be a non-issue previous to this sudden influx of curiosity/disbelief, or something.
there was this time i helped rebuild a church in the ninth ward of louisiana, and went to a breakfast cafe there, that had been rebuilt. it was nice. and of all the native american species i have interacted with, there is possibly an equal or greater number of non-aboriginal organisms that i have interacted with. but i feel unsure what ‘america’ actually is, opinion-wise.
más whisky.
inevitably, people become assholes. i have met babies that seem like assholes, and babies that seem like nice people, but inevitably they turn into assholes. my cousin, who used to be a very nice person, decided that being an asshole seemed okay. this goes for many other acquaintances of mine. being an asshole is an outside perception people formulate for another person, based on their observations of that person’s social interactions, and that seems ‘fucked up’ to me.
will i hate that i wrote ‘exactly one-thousand words’ about ‘nothing’ tomorrow morning? chemicals do this, and other things, i think. i feel sad that i can’t see chemicals and feel that i maybe should have become a biochemist, and looked at portobello mushroom cells under a microscope at some point to closely observe their respiration habits, but i have not. and now i have nearly no concept of what i eat on my pasta.
i have feelings like ‘i can’t wimp out now,’ and other self-demeaning thought processes that propel me to attempt ‘perfection’ and other forms of illusorily futuristic approximations. every concept i indulge seems ‘absurd,’ including ‘indulgence,’ to a degree, because the dictionary definition of ‘indulge’ doesn’t suffice/assuage my feelings of sarcasm regarding the english language.
scratching my hair, and visible particles of skin that have stopped repatriating and dried to the point of ‘losing life’ keep entering my field of vision. no matter how many words i learn, i always feel verbally inadequate, and have decided to stop writing. whiskey. i feel ‘intertwined’ in the life of the woman i may subsequently be ‘romantically involved with,’ ‘somehow,’ and feel concerned that my perception is diluting the possible experiential accuracy.
prose008
Cornelius felt a sincere desire to write about his surroundings, the kids, the pool tables, the beer, the seemingly fortuitous circumstances surrounding his presence, the pretty girls, and his pervasive desire to retain this information in his brain and not type anything about it. A sudden compulsion came over him and he began to look around and type on his laptop, while everyone else seemed to be having ‘a good time.’
He speculated about his place here, what stereotype did he fill? What questions would be pertinent, effective? Does anyone care? Does it seem good or bad that no one seems to care? He stops asking questions and begins to analyze. Phil walks by and a remix of a grime song begins to play and pan into a furious drone of reverberations before turning into a wily break-beat monstrosity.
No one is dancing. Just standing, sitting, yelling into hands cupped around ears. He sees an oddly-proportioned, beautiful girl walk by him to the bathroom and questions her wardrobe, her intentions, and what he will do next. Should I go back down to the main stage with my friends? I am poor, and can’t afford alcohol. Why subject myself to this type of thinking, environment, disturbed, nuanced, banal analysis? What is worth analyzing? I feel like I did an over-analysis once and this all seems incomprehensible now.
All the kids seemed stupid and he didn’t feel ‘in touch’ with his cock enough to peruse the social sphere. His head began to hurt, with a striking and impossible complexity, like the entire city of Baltimore crowded into his head. People started dancing, vaguely. Phil started spinning a set. Everything seemed bleak and impervious to any sort of intrigue.
What words go with this, he thought. None maybe. Dissecting the clusterfuck of bodies and attitudes, glances and gestures seemed ineffectual to him, like he had deemed running with the bulls dumb, and instead opted to sit and watch other people do it, viewing his actions as equally, if not more dumb. Why do I do anything at all, he asked himself.
He went downstairs to hear his friends’ band play.