Author: zornog

we were drinking pabst out back on the porch. probably around five in the morning at this point, this is what i was talking about earlier, how when you’re 22 time has no meaning, you just exist and eventually sleep. but toby and i were talking, he was smoking american spirit blues this time because the gas station was out of yellows. complaining about something, about how nobody cares about him, meanwhile i’m standing in a thin sweater in like 40 degree weather, shivering uncontrollably, nodding my head like, “yeah, yeah, please let me go.” but he keeps talking and i keep listening because, really, i want to sober up and drive home. he starts talking about his family, like, his parents and stuff, his sisters. has toby ever told you any of this stuff? god, his family life was fucked up. you ever hear of satanic ritual abuse?

… yeah! i know! he brought it up like that to me, just out of the blue, like it was bottled up inside him all these years. sure we were three sheets and freezing but still, i barely know the guy! it sounds crazy but he told me that his parents did that stuff to him, i don’t even know what it is and i don’t want to look. it sounds made up but there’s a wikipedia article about it and everything. so he’s talking about it, like, in some detail,and i don’t know what to believe, and he looks at me and says, “i know you don’t believe me,” and then lifts up the left side of his shirt and coat and i shit you not there’s this big, warped looking pentagram branded into his skin, on his side. he’s like, “this is the first thing they did to me,” and for a second there i’m thinking that i’m dead, that this is the end of my life. toby’s gonna stab me right then and there. but, i mean, he doesn’t. his eyes are sad. he lowers his coat and takes another long drag off his cigarette and starts talking about the broncos again. like all that bubbled up and then he saw how it affected me so he stopped talking. i feel like shit. or maybe he’s joking? who knows with that guy. i’m just reeling from him talking about it; imagine LIVING it. no wonder toby is so eccentric.

(with earbuds in)

i’m really loving this band. have you heard them? they’re great, they just, i mean, this album just came out, i think, like, a week ago or something. my friend’s boyfriend told me about them. we were at lacey’s house drinking and he was like, “you all have to listen to this band, they’re the shit,” and he, like, bought the vinyl i guess and had, like, a turntable, a dj turntable and everything. it’s like really mellow techno, or like trance or something. really good. i don’t know if you call techno a “band” though, or a dj or whatever. i don’t know. i don’t even know, i think it’s on spotify but i don’t know what they’re called. i should shazam it or something. anyway they’re soooo good, i’ve been listening to this song all day on repeat, it’s called, like, hold on … “i want to cum on your tits.” i know right? all the songs have these gross names. oh, slick fuck, that’s the name of the band. or dj slick fuck, something like that. the song after this is called “titan tit dicks,” what the fuck does that even mean? you wanna hear it? it’s pretty good.

(she takes her earbuds out, hands them to friend. friend puts earbuds in. all we hear is loud static. she shouts over:)

PRETTY GOOD RIGHT?

i was on the internet the other night–what else is new–and i happened upon a comment thread about why other animals don’t kill themselves. apparently some do, dolphins, penguins, maybe horses, who knows if this is all real but regardless, suddenly i find myself watching a video of a moose sort of half-jumping, half-falling off of a ten foot or so raised platform, i think it was a parking lot or something, onto the sidewalk below. just crushing its front legs, maybe its back legs too. and it starts trying to walk, i think at this point it is terrified because it’s in the middle of the city, right, so it’s trying to get away, but its legs are broken and it’s pulling itself by its stumps, and eventually it just stops, in the middle of the streets, and sits there, and it just looks like it’s thinking, “well, i’m fucked.” just the saddest thing i’ve ever seen. apparently it had to be put down too. imagine that. you break your leg and you’re dead, and worse, you know you’re dead. you’re surrounded by all these beings you know like to hunt you in the forest, in their giant metal monsters that run quickly down the street, ready to slam into you, and you’re trying to get away and then you break your fucking leg and you’re tired from stress, so you just lay there. you lay down. you know you’re dead. you have no other options. you just lay there until they shoot a bullet into your brain. that’s the life you lived. congratulations. all because you got lost in the concrete jungle.

sheila’s been locked in the bathroom for a couple of hours now. i called mom and she’s on her way, but i don’t know how to keep sheila from, i don’t know, killing herself. she was wailing and crying for a good forty-five minutes and now it’s just silence. should i break the door down? i should break the door down. except, the door is solid, i remember dad buying that door at home depot when he was building the house, it’s oak or something, there’s no way i can just bash it down with my shoulder. what should i do? i’ve knocked, i’ve pleaded with her to open the door, i’m about to call the police. should i call the police? i should call the police. the last thing any of us need is sheila to be dead, right? … why aren’t you answering me? nobody hates sheila, don’t get it in your head that she deserves to hurt herself. sure she’s difficult to deal with, and she’s stolen money from us on several occasions, and … she’s a drug user, oh shit, what if she overdosed? i thought she’d been sober for months now, what if she went in there and did heroin or something? shit now i gotta call the police. anyway, your silence is a stern statement of not giving a shit about our own sister. i get that. i still thought you’d help at least a little bit. but, you’re not, so … i’m going to call the police now.

it’s tough being alone on thanksgiving. that’s why i’m glad i’ve got you, mr sparkles. you’re the only one who understands me, the only one who doesn’t care what i’ve done with my life. here, i’ve got some cat food for you, i ground it up myself earlier. i think this is jason. no, no, fred, this is from fred’s thigh, i remember because jason’s foot fell out of the freezer when i opened it but i put it back. fred was the college guy, the little wispy man who wanted to be a lawyer, remember? had no spine, broke down the second i showed him the bonesaw. little twerp. why can’t anyone be good? all the people i’ve met and hacked up, none of them have offered me any reason to spare their lives. each had their own little sob story, each thought their lives were so important, but they’re not. your life, mr sparkles, is important. here, some ground up fred meat. i hope you–oh you like it, you’re eating it right up.

now, i have a turkey in the oven, that’s going to be my dinner. i’ve stuffed it full of margaret’s fingers and toes and some bread crumbs, some onions, a little bit of anise. i’m very excited to taste it when it’s done. now if you’ll excuse me mr sparkles, while you finish your food i’m going to do some research. i think that donald boy comes home from school around 3:35 pm every day. i’m excited to eat his eyeballs in a soup.

(harry is on a blind date with a woman. they are at a decent restaurant, but nothing fancy. he is wearing gym shorts and a tank top.)

the problem with dating is that you begin it in an unnatural state, and then spend, what, six months trying to get back to your natural state of living. you get all dressed up and you don’t dress up normally, you know, you wear sweatpants every day–you buy a bouquet of flowers with money you’d rather spend on a six pack of beer. this is gender neutral, by the way, we both do it. we both want a partner in the middle of the relationship, when we’re both in sweatpants watching jessica jones on the couch and eating pizza from the box, leaving the next slice on our bare stomachs as we eat because the warmth feels good on our bellies. that’s the entropy of relationships. that’s what it will always become. it’s not travel, it’s not marriage, it’s not the loving looks you give each other from across the dinner table, it’s the normal shit. it’s the “your breath smells like onions” or the “i can’t have sex because i have a yeast infection” or the “do you want to watch another episode? yup? okay.” it’s that stuff. that’s the foundation of a relationship, and it’s not even what we start with! we start with glitz and glamour and cocktails and two hours of subtle questioning. then it slowly shifts, like settling molasses: one day he takes his shoes off and you see he hasn’t clipped his toenails in weeks. one night she can’t hold in a fart during sex. you know, the normal shit. you can’t change this, it will always happen. entropy always happens. which is why i came to this blind date in my gym shorts and a tank top–because i’m warm all the goddamn time and i didn’t want to eat in an undershirt and dress shirt, because i knew i would start to sweat. if you don’t like that, you can leave, but remember: this is how you dress when you’re at your most comfortable, too. i’m not trying to impress you, i’m trying to relate to you, to show you how we both are. do you want to be comfortable, or do you want to present the image of having your life together? me, i’ll take the first option. now. do they have burgers here? i want a fucking burger.