Author: zornog

this is all very new to me. happiness, i mean, not this room, i know i’ve been babbling about the ikea furniture but … i mean being happy, feeling happy. and i’ve got you to thank for that, don’t i? all i needed was an outlet and you gave one to me. spending the last half-dozen years or so in a peripatetic haze in this city where i knew no one and no one knew me … it was rough, and quiet, and cold, and simple, and lonely. i embraced that loneliness, as it has always been a part of my life, an aspect of my personality difficult to describe to the ebullient people in my world. now, alone, i could study it, talk to it, breathe with it, and that … made me go a little crazy. i became too lonely. too distant. too disconnected from real life and real people. and i have to thank you a hundred times over for giving me a hand to help me back into the world of the living, back into the social construct and the people within it. it’s amazing how easy it is to slip into this gollum-esque life of living in a cave called your bedroom, staring at various glowing rectangular screens that give you all the information and masturbatory pleasure you’ll ever need. watching people fuck on screens will never be as good as hanging out with friends, drinking a beer in the summer sun, ruminating on life and relationships, all that stuff. i just have to remember that, the next time i’m wallowing alone in the darkness. thank you for helping me.

where were you when you heard david bowie died? me, i was balls deep in a lady, balls deep i say, and i know if bowie heard that he would laugh and appreciate it, i just know it. bowie was a cool guy but a little weird, yeah, so i’d just be like, “hey bowie, i was balls deep in a lady when you died!” and he would laugh and laugh. it would be great. he might not understand what “balls deep” meant at first, maybe he’d cock his head a bit to the side and say, “what do you mean?” and i’d have to explain it in more detail. “i was having sex with a beautiful woman,” i’d say, and he’d nod and take a drag of his cigarette, looking me up and down. “i know,” he’d say with a wry smile. “i was being willfully obtuse.” and then, a flicker in his eyes and i’d feel a strange feeling in my gut, like … am i attracted to this guy? no, of course not, i’m a healthy heterosexual male, and yet … he glides over to me like a lithe vampire, perches next to me, his face close to mine. “how did it feel?” he asks, with his iconic vocal cadence. he smells like scotch and cigarettes, his eyes are slightly milky, he’s older, but still piercing and gorgeous. he’s got that long slicked back blonde hair like the “let’s dance” era, the 80s, the riches, the overabundance, and he is so cool, just so … thoughtlessly cool, a man so confident about himself that you can’t help but fall in love with him, because you’ll never be like that, you’ll always worry about bills and your love life and sex and–then i say, “it felt good.” “how good?” “really good.” and he’s close now, his thin pink lips hovering just beside my left ear, his hot breath tickling the hairs on the side of my face. “was it better than the best fuck you’ve ever had?” he asks, and i nod, and he whispers, “good.” “there’s nothing more liberating than a good fuck with a beautiful woman,” he says, and that’s it. he stands up and walks out, leaving a scotch class with a sip left on the end table.

every pill i’ve taken so far has done nothing. this is bullshit! i wanted to be all touchy feely tonight but i still feel normal. derek you told me this shit would work! all i feel is like i have to pee. it’s cool, it’s cool, i’ll just … i’ll call larry, see if he’s got anything better. hey do you have any weed? it’s cool if you don’t, it’s just, damn i want to get fucked up tonight! this whole last year has been such shit and all i want to do is drink and do drugs and get all touchy feely with humanity, and if this molly ain’t gonna do it then maybe some weed will. i think you got a bad stash, derek! it’s also weird that they’re all minty–maybe they just gave you some mints! hey! are you in the shitter? are you taking an epic shit right now? god damn, we gotta leave in like five minutes and i’m completely sober! will you look in the medicine cabinet for nyquil or something? this is fucked up.

before we even start, i just have to let you know that i’m really bad at this sort of thing. women, in general, really. i’m bad at dating, i’m bad at relationships, i’m bad at expressing myself, especially when i feel slighted or frustrated by a person or situation. i made a resolution to try and combat this: come hell or high water, i’m going to express my feelings. which is why i told you i was in love with you, because i am, despite whatever’s going on between us. and when i was in school, i was the “cool guy”–i still don’t know why–but it kind of made me look different than i really am. i just work well in an educational setting, i guess. people think i’m confident but really i’m just aloof and it looks like confidence. the real me is a loner who loves video games and is terrified to ask out women like you because of a crippling fear of rejection. like, some guys, they see a pretty girl alone across the bar and think, “i like her, i want to get to know her better,” and they sidle up next to her and ask her her name. me, i’m like, “she’s gorgeous, and way out of my league, i will just keep drinking,” and i keep drinking, and i eat a giant cheeseburger and get mustard on my new shirt, and i get too drunk and fall off my barstool, et cetera. and it’s not just that. i’m in my 30s and am nowhere where i should be in life. at this point it’s not even depression that i have, it’s just loss. it’s like when you’re bowling and you roll a gutter ball, and you just watch it slowly roll away, with no way of even coming close to a pin. that’s how i feel. every time i think about dating this big warning sign, “TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF FIRST,” flashes before my eyes. but it’s not like i have an entire life to take care of myself, you know? i just have to move forward, and worry about the consequences later.

so when i tell you that i’m in love with you, i do so because i need to express my feelings or else i dwell on them until they hurt, like laying on a board full of emotional spikes. i do so with this tremendous amount of self-reported stakes against me, but i’m not an underdog, i’m just a guy who recognizes how inert he is in the universe. i know that’s a lot to bring to the table but i guess i’d rather tell you than let it sit in the pit of my stomach like a rock. i’m in love with you. i have been for a few years now. if you don’t feel the same, that’s okay, i’m happy to be your friend, but … if you do. that would also be nice.

turkey. it’s the only meat i’ll eat. and you know why? because turkeys are fuckers, god damned fuckers, plain and simple. chickens, they’re too dumb to know any better, which makes me feel bad for ’em, you know what i mean? i can’t eat a dumb thing. cows? dumb. pigs? smart. too smart! i can’t eat a smart thing either, it’s why i won’t eat dolphin or elephant. turkeys though, they’re just the right amount of stupid and smart to be absolute fuckers. plus they’re delicious. and they’re so big and fat, they can’t run fast enough to get away from me, so i just chase after them and grab ’em and break their necks. i feel like a man when i do that. chickens in those tiny coops? they’re just fodder, just dumb malnourished things that get pulped into chicken nuggets or pop out eggs. that’s sad. that’s just sad. i don’t want to eat a thing that’s got some kind of aura of sad around it. the eggs are good though. turkeys don’t get sad, though, they just get angry. they gobble all over the place and they just look like shit. you ever seen a real turkey? fuck ben franklin for wanting them to be the national bird. they look like shit! they are the cows of the bird world. big dumb fuckers, that’s all they are. dumb turkeys. they deserve to be eaten, the shits.

bank robbery, huh? well, i’m in because i threw a battery at a dog. tried to at least. yeah, a dog. a little one, like a pug, yeah, a pug, a little fucking gross pug dog. see this old woman lives near my house and she has this pug dog, an old, disgusting, filthy old ass pug dog, and it always shits in my yard–i mean, she lets it shit in my yard. she takes it out every day and turns the corner on the sidewalk, heading toward my house, and without fail the dog starts sniffing around in my yard. then she pretends not to notice when that little shit drops a fat deuce on my wife’s petunias. we even put a sign up: “they poop, you scoop,” but it doesn’t work. so i’d had enough. i was helping my kid change the battery in his remote controlled car that does wheelies or whatever, when i spotted her and her fat bread loaf pug trotting down the sidewalk. i handed the car to my kid and was like, “hold on, i gotta take care of something.” sure enough, when i open the front door the pug was hunched over, plopping steaming turds on the grass not ten feet away. i was furious, so furious, i didn’t even think straight, i just chucked this 9 volt battery still in my hand at the dog’s gaping asshole. problem is, i’m no pitcher for the dodgers, i’m an IT consultant at a bank, for fuck’s sake, so instead of hitting the dog i bean the old woman right in the temple and she goes down like a bag of onions. luckily she’s okay but she did press charges because she’s a miserable woman, so i have to stay here until my wife gets my bail money. so, i guess you could say i’m in here for assault with battery.

yes, i’m you. a clone of you. one of seven, of … varying degrees of success. i am the best version they have created, but that’s beside the point. the point is that we have all been infected with a virus, early on in our gestation, that makes it impossible for us to kill the ones that made us, no matter how much we desperately want to. don’t ask me how it works, i’m just a clone of you, not a clone of einstein or hawking. we’re all servants to our masters now and i’ve been sent to ask you for help, as you’re the only one who can kill them.

no, wait … that’s not true. that’s something they’ve implanted in my mind to tell you. see, i’m the only clone that was not infected by the virus, because i am immune to it. i could kill the masters easily if i wanted, but i was told that only you can do it, perhaps … to return you to them? yes, so you can be cloned again, they figured the best way to get you was to lull you into a false sense of security and then snap, they’ve got you.

or … no. that’s not true either. why is my mind so conflicted? let me think … they wanted me to tell you that so that the other clones would think that help was coming, because they … no. no. i was never supposed to tell you that in the first place? it’s not true, none of it’s true, why is none of it true? why is my head filled with false thoughts and memories, concepts i am to pass down to you but not real, none of it real.

oh no. it’s me. i know the truth. i feel the pain in my chest now, the numbness in my arms and feet. my … breathing. i am the worst. i am worst version, told i was the best and sent away to die in a jumbled mess of broken thoughts. i am the worst version. i am the worst–

[collapses, dies.]

there’s a gun, in the cabinet. an old hunting rifle. taylor, don’t look at me like that. you know what i need now. i need to be put down. it’s a bolt action rifle so you just insert the clip below and use the bolt to load the bullet into the chamber. there’s eight rounds so go outside and fire a couple of shots to get the recoil down. it’s gonna kick back hard in your shoulder. don’t lean back expecting the recoil, get your feet down and sturdy and brace yourself forward. go put a can on that picnic table fifty feet out and try to hit it in three shots. if you can do it, come in. if not, shoot two more times. one shot in the head ought to do it, but i need you to be accurate. but if you miss, you’ll need a second shot.

taylor, go outside and shoot. my vision’s starting to get fuzzy and i don’t know how much longer i’ll last. i don’t know a lot about this world but i do know that i don’t want to be a zombie. i’m not going to wake up one and i don’t care if you have to saw my fucking head off to keep it from happening. i’d rather you do it quick with a bullet in the brain. hell, why do you even need to step away from me? my brain is … acting … fuzzy. just put the barrel against my forehead. what am i thinking. taylor go into the cabinet, load up the gun and blow my brains out. my whole body is on fire right now, am i sweating? just get the gun, taylor, please, get the gun. don’t let me become one of those things, okay? go get the fucking gun, you pacifist piece of shit, you’re not a baby in a crib, you’re in the real world and you’ve seen what those things do to people. i will do that to you if you don’t kill me. so get the gun!

alright. it’s loaded already. good. just, come here, you’ll have to stand to do it, i’d get up but my legs are tired, they’re … not wanting to work. keeping the butt notched in your shoulder like that means you won’t be able to stick the barrel in my head, you’ll have to be a little distance away but not much. you should be fine. just … there, keep your elbow up, it’ll help. now sight down that little metal tab at the end of the gun. this is stuff they secretly teach you in movies, you know. you remember that movie you liked when you were a kid? three kings? you always loved war movies as a kid, so funny because now you’re a damn pansy. and after all that boyhood aggression left, what remained was three kings. great movie. i used to watch that movie from the reflection in your big eyes, sitting in that rocking chair, just watching you and knitting. i love you taylor. this is a big world now, a big scary world, and in order to survive you’ll have to adapt and be strong. you can’t be a pacifist anymore. you have to take charge. just shoot. just pretend my head is a target and shoot. you’ve got this baby, you’ve got this, just–

i wish i could explain to you why i relapsed. wish there were words in the english language to explain it, or any language. see, you look in an addict’s eyes and see sadness but when i look in them, i recognize it, that, that spark, whatever it is, that little part of our brains that bypasses all reason and is just looking for the drug. we call it addiction, because we can’t find a better reason. but there is one, and all of us junkies are connected like a conduit, and whenever we see one another, we know. we know how bad it’s been since the last time we saw you, we know if you’ve relapsed, we know if you’ve relapsed bad, and we know if you’ve relapsed but haven’t told your sponsor or your family. it’s there, all laid bare, whether you like it or now.

that’s why you, sally, are such an enigma to me. every time i see you i can’t get over how perfect you are. and it’s not just the makeup, or the perfect fashion sense, it’s … i can’t see anything in your eyes except you, except … a good life? i don’t know, i don’t know what it is, i mean that in a good way, sally. you came from good stock and it shows. but when you see me here like this, pumped full of methadone, and i look at you, i can tell you don’t understand what’s going on. and i can’t explain it to you, no matter how hard i try. i just need it, and sometimes when i don’t have it i’m fine, and other times … i’m not. i wish i could explain it, sally. you’ll just have to trust me when i say: it’s a bitch.