Category: writing

(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.

i just wish i had a woman who loved me.
oh, there were plenty, and you let them go. you had women who loved you so much that you didn’t know what to do with it so you let it go. now why did you do that?
i don’t know.
because you don’t like yourself and while you are desperate for contact with a woman, you don’t think you’re worth her time or energy. because the only things you know about are theatre and video games and both of those are extremely boring to talk about and no women like to hear about them. maybe that’s generalized. maybe it’s a bell curve, really. maybe you really aren’t worth anyone’s time. maybe all the shit you do makes men excited which is great i guess for camaraderie but now you don’t know what to do or say that will make women want to be around you. maybe this is it, maybe this is the crux of your entire depression, the fact that you aren’t cool enough to get laid on a regular basis, just casual sex, and the fact that you dwell on it makes it worse and worse, until days like this when your eyelids are brimming with tears at work. maybe that’s it. do you think that’s it?
i mean … is that even a reason to be depressed?
depression’s just a chemical imbalance. anything can make that imbalance happen. anything you do can make you depressed. you just happen to think that your reason is embarrassing and pulls the “confident actor” guy mystique rug out from under you. these people, they don’t know how much of a sad sack you’ve been your whole dumb life. these people here, they like you, they see you as a great person. is that true? are you a great person? remember, the answer to that question will change the chemical composition in your brain.
are you helping me? what are you doing?
i’m your brain, man, i’m not here to help.

i tried to stay on target, i was counting calories, i was going to the gym every day. i’m doing this for susan. i’m doing this for susan, i kept saying to myself during my second hour on the treadmill. i know she loves me regardless but still. i’m a fat slob. my pants don’t fit anymore. my shirts are too small. my man boobs are horrendous, look at these things, i have tits, gary. i have legitimate tits. if you put a topless picture of me, neck down, next to a topless picture of a fat lady and had someone try to pick which one was the guy? whoever picked, they’d have to think twice!

but … today at the office. we had “office birthdays,” you know, for the month of october, and the boss sends me to saint cupcake with the work card and explicit instructions to order two dozen mini cupcakes. this is a typical order. the boss is kind of a sweet tooth and he always wants to make sure everyone gets at least two cupcakes. he’s a pusher, gary, a goddammed pusher.

so anyway i get to saint cupcake and i buy three dozen boxes. on the company card. i buy three dozen and i walk back to work with three boxes and i sneak in through the back door and hide the third box, so i can eat it by myself. and that’s what i did. and NOBODY CAUGHT ME! i just know accounting’s gonna find it at some point, they’re gonna find it and i’m going to be up shit’s creek without a paddle. and i was just sitting there in my office, eating cupcakes all day. they were all red velvet. oh god i’m so screwed, gary. i’m so fucking screwed. what do i do? should i just admit i bought $30 worth of cupcakes for myself? i guess i could and just pay him back. what do you think?

it’s internal. everything. like a plug, blocking whatever happiness is. it was the middle of winter. i was washing the dishes and staring out into the backyard. it was night and the only light was a floodlamp beaming downward, creating these long, twisted shadows off of the branches of the old tree out back, and the sharp angles of the swing set and jungle gym i used to climb around on as a child. the snow was a couple of feet, receding into darkness. i was rubbing a dishrag against an old gray plate, not paying attention, just this constant circular motion while soapy water filled up in the sink…

and then, for a moment i was there, and i thought, hold on to this moment. what are you feeling? what are you thinking? and i looked down at my hands holding the plate and the dishrag, stopped mid-circle, the soap bubbling up from the rising water in the sink and lightly grazing my hands. it’s internal. this mechanism that stops me from being alive, that forces my brain to live with blinders on, so i can’t see the world around me. sometimes my eyes open and i feel like i can really see.

tendrils of steam escape from their watery prison. i turn the faucet off, set the plate in, submerging my hands in water so hot it makes me clench my teeth. that’s a feeling. that’s something. that’s a tangible change in my nature. i just … let it scald me. i let go of the plate, of the dishrag. i just let the hot water scald me, until it becomes normal. and then i’m back. back to square one.