Scream. Maybe to scream out loud, maybe that would make you feel better. No that wouldn’t the neighbors would come. They would see the mess you are making of the apartment, of yourself, of your life. No we don’t want the neighbors poking their heads in and out of your door. We don’t want them in your life. You know what you want, but you can’t stop thinking about the other things. So you scream, but you scream into your pillow and even that feels cliché. You are a dork. What is wrong with you? Why are you screaming? Why are you always twitching your leg? How come when you look at things, for some reason they grow large then small in front of you? Dementia? Hypergraphilia? And all that stupid shit. That is what is wrong with you. A.D.D.
You are driving down the road, and you hear a beep. You look to your left and there she is, not her, but another girl, a girl you meet a few days ago. She motions for you to pull over. You smile. She pulls over, you pull over behind her. It was meant to be, everything is meant to be. She gets out of her car and runs over to your car, and you know right then and there, that what ever happens today, it will revolve around her. She opens the door and gives you a ghetto high five, and you think to yourself how dorky that is. You notice her face, she is excited to see you, still smiling you ask her what she is doing. She has a lot of make-up on smearing across her face like a kid getting crazy with crayons. You want to go home and write, to listen to music, sleep and maybe jerk off. Fuck her later... how can you arrange this? What will you do? What can you do?
You are always coming back to her, to them. But you will never go back to them. They will never have you back, they don’t want you back. This is a certainty of life. Fuck, how could you fuck so many things up so quickly? It doesn’t matter. Smile, tell yourself it was meant to be, tell yourself things will get better. “It is for the better.” Was is? Is it? You don’t know what you are doing tomorrow, or if you can pay rent. You make out a list.
1. Rent= 700
2. car= 300
3. electric= 200
4. phone= 200
5. everything else= 250
You should rent yourself. You should sell your car. You’re electric, call you mom on the phone, and tell her everything.
You are looking through pictures and illustrations of Eduardo Recife. You know the illustrations are better. You know that he is influenced by radiohead. You want to call him up and let know that you know. You are influenced by radiohead. You throw some radiohead into the cd-rom and listen to it come through your speakers. You then turn it off because it is old to you. And when you listen to them you are listening to the past. You are in the truck and you are driving down the road. You start to sing, “the rain drops, the rain drops, the rain drops” and you are never in tune. You think about what you are doing, always thinking about what you are doing. You have a camera crew of thoughts on your shoulder, you have a audience of conversations in your head. You are driving down E19, plummeting towards Mons at an incredible rate of speed. And you are above your truck, looking down at yourself. You are dictating to the camera crew. You are arguing about the best angles. One of the men, an older man, who is well respected and who has been in the business for a while is telling you, that you must-you must have one of those classic, on-the-road-truck-coming-up-over-the-steamy-hot-horizon, style shots. But you tell him that you want the up-above-the-truck-racing-and-weaving-through-traffic-as-if everything-else-was-an-idle-by-stander-like-everything-else-was-paste, and you are lightning, an eel in water. You are Al Pachino in the movie Heat racing after Robert DiNero. The camera man agrees with you and lets you get the shot you want. After all you are the director. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, and it is your fault.
Think about that time even though you don’t want to think about that time.
You were dancing, it was your wedding, and she looked so god damn beautiful, and you had a lot to drink, and were going to drink a lot more. How come you didn’t dance with her more? How come you didn’t take more pictures? How could you forget all the things you forgot but you can’t forget this? You remember her cousin, and you were attracted to her cousin, and her cousin eventually danced with you and you thought, right there for a brief moment that there was something between you and her cousin. It was your wedding for Christ sakes! There at your very own wedding you were thinking about fucking other girls. You should be shot. Everybody knows, the whole camera crew knows. Everybody knows. You know, and that is the worse. You should be shot. You should have your mouth wrapped around the anus of a hornets nest. And you should be forced to suck them all out. They need to sting your esophagus, you need to swell up and die right there, right now on the spot.
You pick up your pillow and scream into it because you don’t want your neighbors to know. But what difference does it make?
Bob Dylan has a bird that whistles, he has a bird that sings, but if he doesn’t have Corina, it doesn’t mean a thing.
You would’ve fucked her cousin, and you know it... you are directing this movie, and you would direct her into the bathroom, and push your hand down between her legs. Pulling up her slip, her dress, and you would have rested your index finger, on her clit. Your hand would be a karate chop, a log splitter and you would split her in two. And she would straddling you hand, as if it were the only thing holding her up, she would control the pressure with her legs and gravity. Eventually her legs would slacken and all of her weight would be right there on your index finger. And you are waiting for her to get wet before you slid your finger in, and you are worried she is pressing herself too hard into your hand, so you cup her muff, and feel its moisture. She bites you because she is naughty (dorky) this is naughty, this is in-fucking-sane. What can you do? She feels dirty and she feels in control, and she pushes you back onto the toilet, pulls your cock out and straddles you. You are fucking her in the guy’s bathroom, a bathroom that you have never been in before. And will never be in again. You are worried about her cunt leaving silvery slug tracks on your black slacks. You push her off and pull your pants all the way down. You pull her right tit out with your left hand. Spit on your finger tips and twist her brown rose bud nipple into erection. If it was in your face you would bite it off. You are primal, you are an animal, yet you are something different. One of the camera man in your crew yells out loud into your head, “you are a monster!” but they are getting their reality TV worth, and the ratings will be high. America will hate you, and why not because you hate yourself.
You tell her to wait, right there in the stall. You tell her to pull her purplish dress up just incase. You walk your cock over to the sink, careful not to let that pendulum of cum drip down onto your pant leg. You stroke yourself off with soap out of the dispenser, then with water, before toweling off. You tell her not to make any noise, and you will check. The coast is clear... you tell her to count to sixty, and if anyone catches you, to act drunk, to act sick... to act like what ever because that is what she does, that is what you do, you act.
You pick up your pillow and scream into it. You can smell last nights sleep on the casing and it smells like shit.
Your car was given a ticket. Your car is dangerous. it is a menace to society. You camera man, I think his name is Steve, asks you to look at the ticket in disgust, he wants you to rip it up, he wants you to split it in half and throw it onto the air, over your shoulders where he will lock onto one of the feathering pieces like a Russian mig and follow it to the earth. Instead you crumple it up and throw it into the lens of the camera, where it bounces back, and before it hits the ground, is hackey-sacked one or twice into the air producing a smile on your face as you kick it pele style up and over your car and down into the apartment complex-valley-below. The camera man Steve is pissed. “It is not dramatic enough, we cant use that shot!” He says. Instead he decides sets up behind your car and films your busted back bumper. Fuck Steve, he doesn’t know what you are talking about, he doesn’t know what you are thinking, he thinks he is in your head, but he is old and he is white. There is nothing daring or dangerous about Steve the camera man. You are the director! you are the one running the show. You tell Steve to grow a pair of balls, and then you tell him to get in the car because you have a brilliant idea of what would create great reality TV. ratings.
You and Steve and two other fat pasty camera men are down at the Issaquah brew house. They have set the camera up directly over head, with a light source over your right shoulder. You begin slamming beer, and you all know you are on to something. You are drunk in a matter of moments and so is the crew. You are moving so fast, to fast for them to follow. You are screaming, you are pissing in the toilet, in a bathroom that you have never been in before. You are thinking about the future, about the show, about the people sitting in their living rooms falling in love with you. They see your folly, your accident. They see your weakness. You know better than Steve, better than Robert the producer, better than anyone... that if you are weak, or have a weakness, you are a victim, which makes everything all right. So you drink and punch out windows, and you punch yourself, and punch Steve and they know it is money. You are money, you are action. You are nothing but reality ratings when you are not screaming into your pillow.
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