tldr I got bored and decided to write crazy stuff. I had a general direction for things, but I'm not too sure right now. Reading through this, I see a LOT of places where things could be worded better, but right now I'm trying to get a response to how it general feels.
Obviously it's not finished, and prolly won't be for a while, if ever, but let's just see how well it works.
Lots of cursing, mature themes, some dark offbeat comedy, etc.
With whatever ado:
A Toast To Cyanide
Obviously it's not finished, and prolly won't be for a while, if ever, but let's just see how well it works.
Lots of cursing, mature themes, some dark offbeat comedy, etc.
With whatever ado:
I sit in my chair and I am hunched over the computer screen. My eyes scan the page, my hands move with expert ability as they command the mouse to scroll down the page. Word after word I read, and tap the middle click of the mouse, opening links upon links in new tabs. Finished with that page, I go to the closest opened tab, and then I continue to read. I see picture after picture, and if it was satisfactory, I would bookmark the page, and then exit out of it. Then, I would proceed to redo this task upon every single opened tab in my internet browser, until finally there was only one open tab left, the one that I had in the first place. I go to it, and then proceed to click on the next page. I pause and wait for it to finish loading, and then I repeat this entire procedure again.
They were all Facebook pages; I was searching through my Facebook friend archive. It wasn’t as if Facebook was the only social networking site that I had an account on or anything, far from it. I probably had a dozen accounts across a dozen sites. And it’s not as if I have anything against the stuff like Myspace or some crap like that. I never really understood the hate that people had for other sites. They’re all mostly the same; they’re all made for the single same purpose. I don’t really have anything against them.
The reason I’m using Facebook is because I have the most female friends on this site. Sure, many of my friends, or rather, contacts use the other sites and whatever. Many of my Facebook contacts are also contacts with me on the other sites as well. The only reason that I’m using Facebook is that the amount of female contacts I have here is enormous. I don’t even know how that happened. Hell, in the state that I’m in, I’m not even too certain about how I even have so many contacts in the first place, or why I was wearing a yellow pajama that said “Yellow Submarine.” Nevertheless, as it turns out, from my past hour of research, I’ve the most female friends on Facebook, so it’s Facebook I’m using.
Finally, I am finished, and I close the final tab in the browser, causing the screen to fade back to the bland white. There were no tabs open, and the cursor of the mouse was awaiting at the address bar at the top of the page, blinking and blinking and blinking and basically just waiting for me to input something into the address bar, some www dot whatever shit or http slash slash shit or some crap like that, but I decline this quiet offer, and open up the history and bookmarks tab of the browser with three presses of some keys on the keyboard. The recent profile pages I had marked were now blinking before me, or that’s how it seemed in my barely lucid state. With relish, I open all of them again, and then I count the amount of tabs that they take up, one two three four eight sixteen thirty seven links, thirty seven tabs were open in a single internet browser, which admittedly I know is not exactly the smartest thing to do, but screw that shit I have fucking awesome desktop with goddamned fast internet.
They all finish loading, and then I go to the start button, located at the lower left hand corner of the screen, click on it, and then find the simple notepad application located at the top of the page. It pops up, a blank screen with file, edit, view, the basic shit. I glance to the screen, and begin my work, or so I call it.
As I do this, I recheck everything about the tabs and the profiles that are viewed on the browser. “She’s close,” I murmur, and don’t even realize that I am doing so. Click, click, copy paste, edit edit edit. “Shit she’s to far away,” I say again, noticing how far away she was. Close the tab, go to the next one. “Fucking shit, how the hell did I miss this?” I wonder to myself aloud, and realize that I am doing so. I pause, only momentarily, and ponder why I am cursing so much. I shrug, and continue on. “Like hell is she getting into this profile,” I said. Exiting out the tab, I continued on and on and on until finally the screen is a perfect blank like only minutes before, and my notepad profile is practically filled up with entire databases of names, dates, locations and addresses, all the basic stuff needed for stalking, and it was named Matthew’s Profile.
I’m Matt, by the way.
I rub my hands together, sorta surprised and feeling WTF IS GOING ON, until the drugs take away that feeling and bring me back to my maniacal fervor from before. I press file, go down to print, and give a casual check to make sure that the printer is connected to the desktop through the trusty USB 2.0 cable, and then press print. There is a moment of silence as everything seems to pause. I felt the whole world freeze there. The world stopped spinning, momentarily, a break was taken, and all was silent.
Then the whirring begins, god awful annoying as fuck whirring from the printer machine and it makes me want to smash it, smash it like fuck take a hammer and smash it and if I don’t have a hammer I’ll just go to the nearest Home Depot or Lowes or whatever and buy one, drive home listening and humming “It’s a Wonderful World” on the radio and then when I get home smash it, but luckily this feeling was transient and passed by quickly enough as the first page could be seen entering the printer and then coming out the other end. I grasp it from the printer, and snarl at it, literally, snarl at it like a fucking dog, and more papers come out, grasping them, “Gimme that shit gimme that shit,” I said, and when the final piece of paper came out the printer whirred and whirred and whirred for another moment before it stopped.
I spat on it, and then turned it off, feeling such beauty within the sound of such perfect silence. I grasp the paper to my chest, feeling power from it, feeling information, which pretty much amounts to the same thing once you think about it. I take it from my chest, and by the light of the flickering computer monitor, I see names and the profiles on it, and I say, “Yes! Yes!” out loud, almost jumping up and whooping.
I turn to the computer, and then close the applications that are currently running. Mozilla Firefox, internet browser? Exited. My computer? X, I did. The two or three slideshows featuring very scantily clad women that seemed anorexic but definitely did not have matching bust sizes? Well, I paused for a moment before I ended those applications, seeing as I won’t be needing them anymore for a while. I press the power button on the computer, and there’s a pause, and I know that it’s shutting itself down.
“Now,” I said, “Time to stalk and fuck and rape and shit god these are beautiful women I know how the hell do I even know them in the first place,” and then I look to the clock and realize that I just spent the last two (or three, might have been three I don’t know), the last two or three hours searching for female profiles on Facebook to stalk and subsequently rape after a period of a couple of weeks and then I blanch.
“God I am a sick fuck,” I said, and then throw the five pages of paper in the air, and they seem so much more than just five fucking sheets of paper as they fall to the floor like rain, resting on the floor. I fall down to the floor with a great and large thump, and then I say “Mother I’m tired, make me some breakfast,” even though I left my mom’s house five years ago and I was living alone in my own apartment in the middle of some metropolitan place somewhere.
I begin to sleep.
They were all Facebook pages; I was searching through my Facebook friend archive. It wasn’t as if Facebook was the only social networking site that I had an account on or anything, far from it. I probably had a dozen accounts across a dozen sites. And it’s not as if I have anything against the stuff like Myspace or some crap like that. I never really understood the hate that people had for other sites. They’re all mostly the same; they’re all made for the single same purpose. I don’t really have anything against them.
The reason I’m using Facebook is because I have the most female friends on this site. Sure, many of my friends, or rather, contacts use the other sites and whatever. Many of my Facebook contacts are also contacts with me on the other sites as well. The only reason that I’m using Facebook is that the amount of female contacts I have here is enormous. I don’t even know how that happened. Hell, in the state that I’m in, I’m not even too certain about how I even have so many contacts in the first place, or why I was wearing a yellow pajama that said “Yellow Submarine.” Nevertheless, as it turns out, from my past hour of research, I’ve the most female friends on Facebook, so it’s Facebook I’m using.
Finally, I am finished, and I close the final tab in the browser, causing the screen to fade back to the bland white. There were no tabs open, and the cursor of the mouse was awaiting at the address bar at the top of the page, blinking and blinking and blinking and basically just waiting for me to input something into the address bar, some www dot whatever shit or http slash slash shit or some crap like that, but I decline this quiet offer, and open up the history and bookmarks tab of the browser with three presses of some keys on the keyboard. The recent profile pages I had marked were now blinking before me, or that’s how it seemed in my barely lucid state. With relish, I open all of them again, and then I count the amount of tabs that they take up, one two three four eight sixteen thirty seven links, thirty seven tabs were open in a single internet browser, which admittedly I know is not exactly the smartest thing to do, but screw that shit I have fucking awesome desktop with goddamned fast internet.
They all finish loading, and then I go to the start button, located at the lower left hand corner of the screen, click on it, and then find the simple notepad application located at the top of the page. It pops up, a blank screen with file, edit, view, the basic shit. I glance to the screen, and begin my work, or so I call it.
As I do this, I recheck everything about the tabs and the profiles that are viewed on the browser. “She’s close,” I murmur, and don’t even realize that I am doing so. Click, click, copy paste, edit edit edit. “Shit she’s to far away,” I say again, noticing how far away she was. Close the tab, go to the next one. “Fucking shit, how the hell did I miss this?” I wonder to myself aloud, and realize that I am doing so. I pause, only momentarily, and ponder why I am cursing so much. I shrug, and continue on. “Like hell is she getting into this profile,” I said. Exiting out the tab, I continued on and on and on until finally the screen is a perfect blank like only minutes before, and my notepad profile is practically filled up with entire databases of names, dates, locations and addresses, all the basic stuff needed for stalking, and it was named Matthew’s Profile.
I’m Matt, by the way.
I rub my hands together, sorta surprised and feeling WTF IS GOING ON, until the drugs take away that feeling and bring me back to my maniacal fervor from before. I press file, go down to print, and give a casual check to make sure that the printer is connected to the desktop through the trusty USB 2.0 cable, and then press print. There is a moment of silence as everything seems to pause. I felt the whole world freeze there. The world stopped spinning, momentarily, a break was taken, and all was silent.
Then the whirring begins, god awful annoying as fuck whirring from the printer machine and it makes me want to smash it, smash it like fuck take a hammer and smash it and if I don’t have a hammer I’ll just go to the nearest Home Depot or Lowes or whatever and buy one, drive home listening and humming “It’s a Wonderful World” on the radio and then when I get home smash it, but luckily this feeling was transient and passed by quickly enough as the first page could be seen entering the printer and then coming out the other end. I grasp it from the printer, and snarl at it, literally, snarl at it like a fucking dog, and more papers come out, grasping them, “Gimme that shit gimme that shit,” I said, and when the final piece of paper came out the printer whirred and whirred and whirred for another moment before it stopped.
I spat on it, and then turned it off, feeling such beauty within the sound of such perfect silence. I grasp the paper to my chest, feeling power from it, feeling information, which pretty much amounts to the same thing once you think about it. I take it from my chest, and by the light of the flickering computer monitor, I see names and the profiles on it, and I say, “Yes! Yes!” out loud, almost jumping up and whooping.
I turn to the computer, and then close the applications that are currently running. Mozilla Firefox, internet browser? Exited. My computer? X, I did. The two or three slideshows featuring very scantily clad women that seemed anorexic but definitely did not have matching bust sizes? Well, I paused for a moment before I ended those applications, seeing as I won’t be needing them anymore for a while. I press the power button on the computer, and there’s a pause, and I know that it’s shutting itself down.
“Now,” I said, “Time to stalk and fuck and rape and shit god these are beautiful women I know how the hell do I even know them in the first place,” and then I look to the clock and realize that I just spent the last two (or three, might have been three I don’t know), the last two or three hours searching for female profiles on Facebook to stalk and subsequently rape after a period of a couple of weeks and then I blanch.
“God I am a sick fuck,” I said, and then throw the five pages of paper in the air, and they seem so much more than just five fucking sheets of paper as they fall to the floor like rain, resting on the floor. I fall down to the floor with a great and large thump, and then I say “Mother I’m tired, make me some breakfast,” even though I left my mom’s house five years ago and I was living alone in my own apartment in the middle of some metropolitan place somewhere.
I begin to sleep.
“Yo, Matt, Wakey wakey, hands off snakey,” a voice said, to me apparently.
“I’m not touching my snakey,” I murmur, trying to ignore the voice that was waking me up, against my will.
“Well, no,” the voice said with some hesitation. A grin practically crept into that voice. “You’re not touching your snakey...”
His words still not registering in my mind, my hand squeezes, and I...
My eyes open wide fucking open, and I leap up and away from him, screaming my head off.
Gerry grinned. “That is the perfect way to wake up a heterosexual male in the morning, did you know that?”
“I think I just learned that, yeah,” I reply, and glance down to find an actual rubber snake in my hand. Its tongue sticks out, a red leering tongue that, combined with its eyes, made it seem like it was leering at me, mocking me, laughing at me for mistaking it for a penis of my male friend...
“Stupid snake,” I said. “You know, I’m naming this bastard Jinny.”
“Jinny?” Gerry frowned. “You’re really not awake yet, are you?”
“Makes what you say that?” I said, and my right eye blinked a moment after my left.
“Nothing at all,” he replied. “What time did you go to sleep last night?”
“Ar ha!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t got to sleep last night!”
An arched eyebrow met my declaration. “You didn’t?”
“Nope!” I said. “I went to sleep this morning!”
He glared at me, giving a look of intrigue. He raises his hand, and four fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Whose fingers are yours again?”
Gerry sighed. “Okay then Matt,” he replied, “Seriously, what time in the morning did you go to sleep?”
“Who goes to what now?”
“You, go to sleep.”
“Sleep’s an overrated bitch,” I replied. “Do you know how much sleep takes away in a way in a way? Do you know how many hours I have lost to the ass-holy phenomenon named as sleep?”
“I don’t know,” Gerry replied, looking mildly exasperated, “As you have not yet stated the time you went to sleep.”
“I do so believe that the time in which my eyes closed and did not opened for hours on end this wonderful morning,” I said. I sorta stopped, and just stared at him, blinking. They stopped blinking for about half a minute too. Gerry glanced around, waiting for me to finish my sentence. Finally, he could wait no more.
“Yes?”
I held up four fingers. “This many?”
“You’re surprisingly verbose right now,” Gerry suddenly remarked.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It might have been the drugs. Or the porn last night. Or the snakey snakey Jinny.”
“Yeah, the snakey snakey Jinny does that to people,” Gerry said, with a perfectly happy smile as I fell down to the floor again, my body twitching a bit as I tried to strangle the snakey snakey Jinny. “Dude, don’t kill the little snakey snakey,” Gerry pleaded.
“Make me breakfast Mother,” I said as I drifted off to sleep again.
“Those were some hardcore pills you took last night,” a voice said as I drifted off once again.
Once more, I awoke to, this time, rather than the homoerotic sexual jokes of my fellow friend Gerry, the smell of bacon that was simmering in its own flesh and oil as little bursts and pockets of air escaped from them and popped in the liquid like molten lava. The amino acids of the meat changed with the extreme heat of the pan, crisping the dead meat and flesh and fat of the strip of pig.
Smelled delicious otherwise, though.
My pounding headache racked my brain, and I groaned, thrusting around where I laid, clutching my head. Every pulse in my vein I could hear and feel, and it was not very pretty. A gagging feeling took root within my throat and abdomen, and I felt like choking. This was not too unlike the feeling of a hangover than one gets from chugging too much alcohol at the bar after twelve girls shot you down without a second thought for some inane reason (not that that’s ever happened to me), but the feeling was deeper than a hangover. My arms were basically shot, and cost me every last bit of my strength to keep my arms cradling my head, for they felt they were about to literally fall off any moment.
“This hurts,” I moaned, my voice destroying my ears, positively hurting them beyond anything I can think of. I groaned, tried and tired and weakened, and then I fell to my side, panting and gasping. A cool wind blew through the room, and I started shaking, even though I swear I didn’t feel cold.
“Dude, you properly awake this time?” Gerry asked, his voice coming from the kitchen part of the apartment.
“Maybe,” I said, wincing. “Does immense throbbing mental pain usually follow waking up?”
“Occasionally,” he replied.
I pushed myself up, my right hand forcing against the floor. Taking my left arm, I started to do likewise, before I realized that beneath the hand was one of the printed out papers from last night. As if it was a horrible karmic act of revenge for the insanity that had plagued my mind last night, I lost my hold and grip upon the floor, and my body tripped, my body fell, it slammed upon the hard wooden floor with such power and pain that I almost blacked out. I screamed out, shaking and shivering.
There was a rumble upon the floor that I could hear, and the door opened, with Gerry looking in with mild distaste.
“Dude,” he said, “Don’t take those pills anymore.”
“I won’t,” I replied without much strength in my voice.
“Good, because I will not be making bacon and eggs for you if you do shit like this.”
“I never asked you to,” I said.
“Who cares, I’m doing it anyways,” he said, “obviously out of the goodness of my own heart because I am your very very very very good friend and obviously I would never ask you to do a favor for me in exchange for some bacon in the morning.”
“You also mentioned eggs,” I replied.
“Eggs, that you will have to do a favor for,” Gerry said. He disappeared out of the doorway. “Let’s go, dude, can’t be hungover all day long.”
A bit too tired to speak, I could only murmur, “You wanna bet?” in a low voice, and attempted to get up anyways. I made sure not to touch any of the printed out paper, because what had happened before was not exactly an experience that I would like to repeat very much, or at all really. There was enough going right at the moment, and I didn’t need more crap happening to me.
I get up and give a casual glance around. My bed was located in the corner of the room, which was flanked by the closet and a large drawer where my various privates and underwear lied in wait. Opposite them was the large desk where the heavy desktop laid, still humming for some reason, and the large monitor that accompanied it as well. Two or three small posters were spread out across the beige walls of the room, although I paid them little care. A calendar was located somewhere. Not sure, but it’s around here.
I started shivering again, and from the hardwood floors, cold air rose and frosted up my legs. Rather than taking this as a bad thing, I’m quite happy to be able to feel cold again, which in itself was pretty sad, although I guess the effects of whatever the drug was from last night are slowly wearing away. I leap upon the bed with whatever strength I could muster, and with a painful fatigue I wrapped the blanket around me.
I wasn’t sleepy, though. I was simply tired. Tired of everything. Tired of every fucking thing in this every fucking world, and great damn shit, here comes the cussing again.
“Calm down,” I whispered aloud. “Nervous breakdowns are a complete and totally mental thing. Calm down. Stop cursing for one thing.”
I take a breath, in out in out, letting air flow through my system and try to get whatever that was still in here out. I lick my lips, finding them shockingly dry, and my tongue fuzzy and almost without any sensation at all. I attempt to lick them again, gathering up some of my spit in my mouth and then lathering it upon my lips. The dry skin distinguished itself from the living skin, the cool layer of soft skin beneath. I reach up with my hand, in two or three jerky motions, and then began to peel the dead skin off.
I spit the small pieces of skin out, and then attempt to sit up. After my previous successful or at least partially successful endeavors to speak, stand, and get into bed, this act was made comparatively easily. I sat there, feeling gone, wanting to die, wanting to leave and never look back knowing that there is something holding me back and not even caring.
I held my hand to my head, shaking it. “It’s too early in the morning to get into this crap,” I stated to myself.
“Endure,” I said, and started chanting it as I left the bed, hoping that my mantra could make my body move without desire.
Endure, she had said.
“I’m not touching my snakey,” I murmur, trying to ignore the voice that was waking me up, against my will.
“Well, no,” the voice said with some hesitation. A grin practically crept into that voice. “You’re not touching your snakey...”
His words still not registering in my mind, my hand squeezes, and I...
My eyes open wide fucking open, and I leap up and away from him, screaming my head off.
Gerry grinned. “That is the perfect way to wake up a heterosexual male in the morning, did you know that?”
“I think I just learned that, yeah,” I reply, and glance down to find an actual rubber snake in my hand. Its tongue sticks out, a red leering tongue that, combined with its eyes, made it seem like it was leering at me, mocking me, laughing at me for mistaking it for a penis of my male friend...
“Stupid snake,” I said. “You know, I’m naming this bastard Jinny.”
“Jinny?” Gerry frowned. “You’re really not awake yet, are you?”
“Makes what you say that?” I said, and my right eye blinked a moment after my left.
“Nothing at all,” he replied. “What time did you go to sleep last night?”
“Ar ha!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t got to sleep last night!”
An arched eyebrow met my declaration. “You didn’t?”
“Nope!” I said. “I went to sleep this morning!”
He glared at me, giving a look of intrigue. He raises his hand, and four fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Whose fingers are yours again?”
Gerry sighed. “Okay then Matt,” he replied, “Seriously, what time in the morning did you go to sleep?”
“Who goes to what now?”
“You, go to sleep.”
“Sleep’s an overrated bitch,” I replied. “Do you know how much sleep takes away in a way in a way? Do you know how many hours I have lost to the ass-holy phenomenon named as sleep?”
“I don’t know,” Gerry replied, looking mildly exasperated, “As you have not yet stated the time you went to sleep.”
“I do so believe that the time in which my eyes closed and did not opened for hours on end this wonderful morning,” I said. I sorta stopped, and just stared at him, blinking. They stopped blinking for about half a minute too. Gerry glanced around, waiting for me to finish my sentence. Finally, he could wait no more.
“Yes?”
I held up four fingers. “This many?”
“You’re surprisingly verbose right now,” Gerry suddenly remarked.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It might have been the drugs. Or the porn last night. Or the snakey snakey Jinny.”
“Yeah, the snakey snakey Jinny does that to people,” Gerry said, with a perfectly happy smile as I fell down to the floor again, my body twitching a bit as I tried to strangle the snakey snakey Jinny. “Dude, don’t kill the little snakey snakey,” Gerry pleaded.
“Make me breakfast Mother,” I said as I drifted off to sleep again.
“Those were some hardcore pills you took last night,” a voice said as I drifted off once again.
Once more, I awoke to, this time, rather than the homoerotic sexual jokes of my fellow friend Gerry, the smell of bacon that was simmering in its own flesh and oil as little bursts and pockets of air escaped from them and popped in the liquid like molten lava. The amino acids of the meat changed with the extreme heat of the pan, crisping the dead meat and flesh and fat of the strip of pig.
Smelled delicious otherwise, though.
My pounding headache racked my brain, and I groaned, thrusting around where I laid, clutching my head. Every pulse in my vein I could hear and feel, and it was not very pretty. A gagging feeling took root within my throat and abdomen, and I felt like choking. This was not too unlike the feeling of a hangover than one gets from chugging too much alcohol at the bar after twelve girls shot you down without a second thought for some inane reason (not that that’s ever happened to me), but the feeling was deeper than a hangover. My arms were basically shot, and cost me every last bit of my strength to keep my arms cradling my head, for they felt they were about to literally fall off any moment.
“This hurts,” I moaned, my voice destroying my ears, positively hurting them beyond anything I can think of. I groaned, tried and tired and weakened, and then I fell to my side, panting and gasping. A cool wind blew through the room, and I started shaking, even though I swear I didn’t feel cold.
“Dude, you properly awake this time?” Gerry asked, his voice coming from the kitchen part of the apartment.
“Maybe,” I said, wincing. “Does immense throbbing mental pain usually follow waking up?”
“Occasionally,” he replied.
I pushed myself up, my right hand forcing against the floor. Taking my left arm, I started to do likewise, before I realized that beneath the hand was one of the printed out papers from last night. As if it was a horrible karmic act of revenge for the insanity that had plagued my mind last night, I lost my hold and grip upon the floor, and my body tripped, my body fell, it slammed upon the hard wooden floor with such power and pain that I almost blacked out. I screamed out, shaking and shivering.
There was a rumble upon the floor that I could hear, and the door opened, with Gerry looking in with mild distaste.
“Dude,” he said, “Don’t take those pills anymore.”
“I won’t,” I replied without much strength in my voice.
“Good, because I will not be making bacon and eggs for you if you do shit like this.”
“I never asked you to,” I said.
“Who cares, I’m doing it anyways,” he said, “obviously out of the goodness of my own heart because I am your very very very very good friend and obviously I would never ask you to do a favor for me in exchange for some bacon in the morning.”
“You also mentioned eggs,” I replied.
“Eggs, that you will have to do a favor for,” Gerry said. He disappeared out of the doorway. “Let’s go, dude, can’t be hungover all day long.”
A bit too tired to speak, I could only murmur, “You wanna bet?” in a low voice, and attempted to get up anyways. I made sure not to touch any of the printed out paper, because what had happened before was not exactly an experience that I would like to repeat very much, or at all really. There was enough going right at the moment, and I didn’t need more crap happening to me.
I get up and give a casual glance around. My bed was located in the corner of the room, which was flanked by the closet and a large drawer where my various privates and underwear lied in wait. Opposite them was the large desk where the heavy desktop laid, still humming for some reason, and the large monitor that accompanied it as well. Two or three small posters were spread out across the beige walls of the room, although I paid them little care. A calendar was located somewhere. Not sure, but it’s around here.
I started shivering again, and from the hardwood floors, cold air rose and frosted up my legs. Rather than taking this as a bad thing, I’m quite happy to be able to feel cold again, which in itself was pretty sad, although I guess the effects of whatever the drug was from last night are slowly wearing away. I leap upon the bed with whatever strength I could muster, and with a painful fatigue I wrapped the blanket around me.
I wasn’t sleepy, though. I was simply tired. Tired of everything. Tired of every fucking thing in this every fucking world, and great damn shit, here comes the cussing again.
“Calm down,” I whispered aloud. “Nervous breakdowns are a complete and totally mental thing. Calm down. Stop cursing for one thing.”
I take a breath, in out in out, letting air flow through my system and try to get whatever that was still in here out. I lick my lips, finding them shockingly dry, and my tongue fuzzy and almost without any sensation at all. I attempt to lick them again, gathering up some of my spit in my mouth and then lathering it upon my lips. The dry skin distinguished itself from the living skin, the cool layer of soft skin beneath. I reach up with my hand, in two or three jerky motions, and then began to peel the dead skin off.
I spit the small pieces of skin out, and then attempt to sit up. After my previous successful or at least partially successful endeavors to speak, stand, and get into bed, this act was made comparatively easily. I sat there, feeling gone, wanting to die, wanting to leave and never look back knowing that there is something holding me back and not even caring.
I held my hand to my head, shaking it. “It’s too early in the morning to get into this crap,” I stated to myself.
“Endure,” I said, and started chanting it as I left the bed, hoping that my mantra could make my body move without desire.
Endure, she had said.
“There’s no grits?” I asked, looking at the plate and looking perplexed.
“Nope, not at all,” Gerry replied to me. He gave me an annoyed and snide glance. “It took you an entire damn hour to wake up, dude, and I’m not even counting the first time I woke you up.
I blinked, feeling uneven, feeling uneasy. “What time is it anyways?” I asked. My voice was whisper, my head still aching.
Gerry glanced down at his Rolex watch. “Eleven twenty two of the morning,” he replied, “thirty eight... ah... thirty seven minutes until noon arrives.”
“Great,” I muttered. I glanced down again. “There’s no biscuits, either.”
“Exactly,” Gerry said.
“Dude, there’s absolutely nothing on this plate except for about three slices of bacon and two eggs.”
“There would have been three,” Gerry began, “but apparently, you ran out of eggs, and that really made me just a little bit pissed off. I really didn’t feel like going all the way to the damn store to buy some eggs, you know?”
“Gerry,” I started, my voice a strained whisper, “the store is two damn minutes away, and that’s by walking. This apartment is on the second floor. It would have taken less than five minutes to get some eggs. Fuck, while you were there, you could have also bought grits, biscuits, you know, all the stuff that makes a breakfast varied without just biting into fat and meat?”
“Why would I do that?” Gerry responded. “It’s not like I needed to wake you up.”
I ignored him. “Is there even any milk?”
“Nah,” he said, “the milk carton expired about two weeks ago.”
“Did it?”
“Yeah, I thought that something died in the fridge when I first opened it.”
“Damn, did the milk stink that bad?”
Gerry glanced up at me with a frown on his face. “What? No, it turned out to be a rat.”
I paused. “Wait, what turned out to be a rat?”
“The something that died in your fridge.”
“I thought that you said you only thought that something had died in the fridge when you first did,” I reminded.
“Yes...” he said, straining out that single syllable, “and it turns out that what I thought was right and something really did die in the fridge.”
I blanched. “A rat?! Are you serious?”
Gerry gave a jerk to the kitchen with his head. “Hey, you can go check if you want, I’ve got no problems with that.”
“Dude, does this mean that the rat is still there?”
My friend look incredulously at me. “What? No, I’d already disposed of it.”
“Good,” I said.
“Make sure you dispose of the trash under the sink, though, or else it’s really gonna start stinking up the apartment.” He went over, and grabbed some forks. He threw one to me, which I lazily caught and fumbled in the air, as my attention was mostly focused on him and wondering what he was talking about. “The rat’s body was really huge when I stuffed it into the trashcan in there. I think it had been surviving in your fridge eating the stuff in there, which would make sense.”
I glared at him, and looked down at the plain breakfast I had before me.
“Suddenly I’m not very hungry,” I replied.
“More for me then,” Gerry said, sticking his fork into my bacon and bringing the crispy and oily materials to his own plate. He bit into it with relish. “It’s been forever since I’ve eaten nothing but meat, tastes surprisingly good.
“Whatever dude,” I said. I went into the living room, where the TV was located. “I’ll find something to eat later, then.”
“Oy oy, wait,” I heard Gerry say behind me as he rush in with the plate of meat. “Let’s go, we gotta watching something.”
“Watch what?”
“It’s the afternoon, it’s a Saturday, and we, or at least I, have gotten breakfast in our hands. As if there’s something else to watch at this time.
“”I’m still not following,” I replied.
He grinned. “Sesame street, obviously.”
Gerry gave a glance around the room. I did as well as I walked inside. It was my room, and I was used to the many intricacies and delicates that riddled the strange living room. Or at least, I should; I had been two weeks since I last entered my house and began the strange and messed up little adventure that one would normally call mourning.
A dozen beer cans and bottles littered the floor, rolling around as we walked through. I kicked at one, sending it flying and hitting the window with a sharp smack as it angled off somewhere. I grimaced, finding that the bottle still had a measly amount of liquid in it, and it had splattered the window.
“Weird way to start off mourning,” Gerry remarked to me. I rolled my eyes, and we continued in, and then we both sat on the couch with a modicum of synchrony.
The couch was an old and used little couch that me and Corina had gotten four years before, staring on our second year of college, our sophomore year. It was received at some yard sale shop somewhere. Even now, it still endured a variety of marks upon its body, such as the little (or not so little) gash on its fabric on the back, which had widened a bit every year, and now the studs and fluffing of the thing could be removed, but Gerry and I had duct taped it up. Nevertheless, it served its purpose quite well enough; it was soft, the fabric was comforting, and everything was generally likeable.
Well, a stench of Budweiser and alcohol now protruded from the thing, courtesy of the beer soaking in these past two weeks. I’m actually quite happy that it wasn’t still wet. That would have been quite disgusting.
“Sesame Street?”” I wondered, continuing from the conversation we just had from the kitchen room. As I did so, Gerry placed down the food on the wooden table. The table wasn’t actually completely wooden, and a layer of glass separated the material from the actual wood underneath. Unlike the used couch that Corina and I had bought with out own money, the table was considerably new, only about two years old and while moderately worn out, it was still quite presentable, very much so. I had received it as a present for getting to my last year of college from my parents, back when they were still alive.
Gerry nodded in response to my question. “Yeah dude, the best show on PBS. I so miss watching that show.”
I rolled my eyes. “Dude, you’re turning on the TV and watching a show for little kids. Don’t you think this is a little weird?”
“Not at all.” He turned on the TV. I was quite lucky; most of the major bills, such as the one of cable, did not require payment in the two weeks I was gone, and the on-demand services were still working.
“Gerry, I’m gonna consider this weird, just so you know.”
“Like how I’m gonna consider the fact that you were compiling a list of women you were going to stalk and rape weird? Just a little bit weird, not to mention criminal, don’t you think?”
“Hey I was high on some questionable drugs from someone I don’t remember. What’s your excuse?”
“I’m high on life.”
I paused. A tone of seriousness crossed my tone. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re…”
“No,” he told me, “it doesn’t, it really really doesn’t.”
“Good.”
“Maybe just a little bit.”
“Dude…”
“You’re still suffering from the effects o the drugs,” he told me, “Don’t judge me.”
“We’ve known each other for six years,” I said. “I still judge you every single day. That’s how fucked up you are.”
“Like the one that actually has a reason can speak.”
I blinked. “Der, Gerry, I can speak because I have a reason.”
“And today’s magic number is six,” Gerry stated, copying what was said on the television but moments ago, “with a side helping of fuck you.”
“That’s nice,” I casually continued, “although I’m quite heterosexual myself.”
“Heterosexuality’s overrated.”
I sigh, feeling the lingering headache. “Sometimes people forget that.”
“The human mind can think that everything’s a sex object, you know,” he continued. I started to feel uncomfortable, squirming a bit in my chair. He glanced over. “What, too psychological for you?”
“Nah, glad to see that your college major is doing you some good pounding your friend’s drug induced mind,” I said, “but next time, please don’t remind me that I could be jacking off in the bathroom because I could have a fetish for things that squirt water.”
Gerry gave me a shrug. “Hey, that is completely and totally not the worst fetishism case that I have had. Did you know this one time...”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I said, “Already have a headache.”
He gave me a glare, and returned his gaze to the screen. After a pause, he said, “This one guy thought that he had an Oedipus complex. You know what that is, right? It’s that thing where some guy really wants to bang his mother, which is pretty understandable in some cases, although many people other there consider such a thing to be this really messed up and fucking weird thing and that basically anyone who expresses such desires should be castrated.”
“Nice to know,” I started, knowing that he’ll ignore me anyways. “Although I personally consider that little tidbit not something I’d like to know or would, honestly, be nice to know.”
“So this one guy, who gets mother effin huge boners whenever his mother says a single sexual thing, pun intended, is totally suffering every single day, and he doesn’t have even close enough money to consider moving out. So he came to me asking me what to do, and I’m just like still reeling a bit about when he told me about how he saw his mother naked this one time as a kid, and I’m just thinking about what a huge screw he is, although obviously I’m not saying this aloud. Gotta look nice and compassionate, right?”
“Aren’t you used to screws like this?”
“What? Yeah, but this guy was like, my second real case ever, and I was totally stumped. So I just fed him about some New Age bullcrap about how you should be honest and true to yourself, and that he should consider being truthful to his mother, and if she rejects him it’s her fault.”
“Sounds like you just made that guy’s life like hell.”
“Not really, you’ll be surprised how often I bullcrap with that line or how many guys with Oedipus complexes there are in this world who are actually helped by that line,” Gerry said, finishing up the last bit of meat on his plate. Wiping his mouth, he continued, “So anyways, like that guy told me, he went home went day, taking my advice to heart. He was totally going to confess his love for his mother or his mother’s body, same thing in the end, like some little schoolyard crush.”
I glanced at Gerry. His voice was light and joking, but his eyes barely stared at the screen anymore. His voice said one thing, but he looked... bitter.
“So he comes home with this idiotic and insane idea, and then he knocks on his mom’s door, enters without even freaking waiting for any answer, and then he finds his mother naked. Yeah, completely and totally naked. The guy wasn’t that much older than me, and had him in her teens, so she was still pretty damn young and hot, I saw her, yeah.
“And so, he just stood there and stared, stared at his mother’s naked body, and she pushed him out. You wanna know the funny part? He was wearing skinny jeans, and it was pretty damn effing obvious that there was a hard as crap erection underneath, his words not mine. So he just stood outside, fiddling while he heard a whole bunch of crap inside, and then he tried to fiddle with the door. Turned out that the door was open. He then, with whatever though process or lack of in his head, decided to tell his naked mother right then and there that he wanted her body.”
“Quite funny,” I dryly remarked.
Gerry glanced over. “That wasn’t the punchline.”
“Oh.”
“What happens next might be the pnunchline,” Gerry continued. “The two screwed each other silly.”
I stared blankly ahead.
“Messed up, right?”
“Are you serious?” I asked, quite seriously myself.
“Damn straight. He told his mother, his mother kissed him, and then they started going at each other like rabbits. I can describe this crap in extreme detail, too, that guy had hella confidence talking to me next time.”
“So the moral of this story is…?” I started. Gerry laughed, a small and innocuous chuckle.
“That wasn’t the punchline either,” he told me. I frowned.
“Okay, what the hell was the punchline then?”
“His dad came home, and caught them.”
I stopped. We both started laughing. “Brings back memories.”
“Hell yeah it should.”
“What the fuck happened next?” I asked, finally and genuinely intrigued.
“The moral and punchline of the story happened next,” Gerry said, grinning now. “His dad joined in.”
Silence.
“Like… twosome became a…”
“Yep.”
“And the guy had no… problems…”
“Bisexual,” Gerry stated, “Like me. Didn’t really mind, apparently, as long as he got to bang his mom.”
“And the dad…”
“I don’t know,” he said, “and I don’t really care, because it took all of my willpower to not burst out laughing or barf from disgust as the guy told me about it.”
“So the moral of the story is…? You still fail to mention what it is.”
“Don’t screw your mother,” Gerry said, “unless you rather wish to be screwed by your father.”
“Figuratively or literally?”
“Both.”
I paused. My head ached from the sudden burst of laughter, but I barely noticed it anymore. “Are you sure that the moral isn’t something like certain things should best be quiet, honor your mother, don’t screw your family, something that’s actually moralistic?”
Gerry gave me an incredulous stare. “No.”
“I’m getting a drink,” I declared. “You do whatever the fuck you want with the TV.”
“Elmo’s World!” Gerry happily declared.
“Pedophile fuck,” I declared as I left.
“Paranoid psychopath,” Gerry responded, “You owe me for the bacon and eggs, remember!”
I paused. “But I didn’t eat them.”
Gerry looked genuinely confused. “But I did.”
I scowled, closing the door and feeling his laugh.
“Nope, not at all,” Gerry replied to me. He gave me an annoyed and snide glance. “It took you an entire damn hour to wake up, dude, and I’m not even counting the first time I woke you up.
I blinked, feeling uneven, feeling uneasy. “What time is it anyways?” I asked. My voice was whisper, my head still aching.
Gerry glanced down at his Rolex watch. “Eleven twenty two of the morning,” he replied, “thirty eight... ah... thirty seven minutes until noon arrives.”
“Great,” I muttered. I glanced down again. “There’s no biscuits, either.”
“Exactly,” Gerry said.
“Dude, there’s absolutely nothing on this plate except for about three slices of bacon and two eggs.”
“There would have been three,” Gerry began, “but apparently, you ran out of eggs, and that really made me just a little bit pissed off. I really didn’t feel like going all the way to the damn store to buy some eggs, you know?”
“Gerry,” I started, my voice a strained whisper, “the store is two damn minutes away, and that’s by walking. This apartment is on the second floor. It would have taken less than five minutes to get some eggs. Fuck, while you were there, you could have also bought grits, biscuits, you know, all the stuff that makes a breakfast varied without just biting into fat and meat?”
“Why would I do that?” Gerry responded. “It’s not like I needed to wake you up.”
I ignored him. “Is there even any milk?”
“Nah,” he said, “the milk carton expired about two weeks ago.”
“Did it?”
“Yeah, I thought that something died in the fridge when I first opened it.”
“Damn, did the milk stink that bad?”
Gerry glanced up at me with a frown on his face. “What? No, it turned out to be a rat.”
I paused. “Wait, what turned out to be a rat?”
“The something that died in your fridge.”
“I thought that you said you only thought that something had died in the fridge when you first did,” I reminded.
“Yes...” he said, straining out that single syllable, “and it turns out that what I thought was right and something really did die in the fridge.”
I blanched. “A rat?! Are you serious?”
Gerry gave a jerk to the kitchen with his head. “Hey, you can go check if you want, I’ve got no problems with that.”
“Dude, does this mean that the rat is still there?”
My friend look incredulously at me. “What? No, I’d already disposed of it.”
“Good,” I said.
“Make sure you dispose of the trash under the sink, though, or else it’s really gonna start stinking up the apartment.” He went over, and grabbed some forks. He threw one to me, which I lazily caught and fumbled in the air, as my attention was mostly focused on him and wondering what he was talking about. “The rat’s body was really huge when I stuffed it into the trashcan in there. I think it had been surviving in your fridge eating the stuff in there, which would make sense.”
I glared at him, and looked down at the plain breakfast I had before me.
“Suddenly I’m not very hungry,” I replied.
“More for me then,” Gerry said, sticking his fork into my bacon and bringing the crispy and oily materials to his own plate. He bit into it with relish. “It’s been forever since I’ve eaten nothing but meat, tastes surprisingly good.
“Whatever dude,” I said. I went into the living room, where the TV was located. “I’ll find something to eat later, then.”
“Oy oy, wait,” I heard Gerry say behind me as he rush in with the plate of meat. “Let’s go, we gotta watching something.”
“Watch what?”
“It’s the afternoon, it’s a Saturday, and we, or at least I, have gotten breakfast in our hands. As if there’s something else to watch at this time.
“”I’m still not following,” I replied.
He grinned. “Sesame street, obviously.”
Gerry gave a glance around the room. I did as well as I walked inside. It was my room, and I was used to the many intricacies and delicates that riddled the strange living room. Or at least, I should; I had been two weeks since I last entered my house and began the strange and messed up little adventure that one would normally call mourning.
A dozen beer cans and bottles littered the floor, rolling around as we walked through. I kicked at one, sending it flying and hitting the window with a sharp smack as it angled off somewhere. I grimaced, finding that the bottle still had a measly amount of liquid in it, and it had splattered the window.
“Weird way to start off mourning,” Gerry remarked to me. I rolled my eyes, and we continued in, and then we both sat on the couch with a modicum of synchrony.
The couch was an old and used little couch that me and Corina had gotten four years before, staring on our second year of college, our sophomore year. It was received at some yard sale shop somewhere. Even now, it still endured a variety of marks upon its body, such as the little (or not so little) gash on its fabric on the back, which had widened a bit every year, and now the studs and fluffing of the thing could be removed, but Gerry and I had duct taped it up. Nevertheless, it served its purpose quite well enough; it was soft, the fabric was comforting, and everything was generally likeable.
Well, a stench of Budweiser and alcohol now protruded from the thing, courtesy of the beer soaking in these past two weeks. I’m actually quite happy that it wasn’t still wet. That would have been quite disgusting.
“Sesame Street?”” I wondered, continuing from the conversation we just had from the kitchen room. As I did so, Gerry placed down the food on the wooden table. The table wasn’t actually completely wooden, and a layer of glass separated the material from the actual wood underneath. Unlike the used couch that Corina and I had bought with out own money, the table was considerably new, only about two years old and while moderately worn out, it was still quite presentable, very much so. I had received it as a present for getting to my last year of college from my parents, back when they were still alive.
Gerry nodded in response to my question. “Yeah dude, the best show on PBS. I so miss watching that show.”
I rolled my eyes. “Dude, you’re turning on the TV and watching a show for little kids. Don’t you think this is a little weird?”
“Not at all.” He turned on the TV. I was quite lucky; most of the major bills, such as the one of cable, did not require payment in the two weeks I was gone, and the on-demand services were still working.
“Gerry, I’m gonna consider this weird, just so you know.”
“Like how I’m gonna consider the fact that you were compiling a list of women you were going to stalk and rape weird? Just a little bit weird, not to mention criminal, don’t you think?”
“Hey I was high on some questionable drugs from someone I don’t remember. What’s your excuse?”
“I’m high on life.”
I paused. A tone of seriousness crossed my tone. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re…”
“No,” he told me, “it doesn’t, it really really doesn’t.”
“Good.”
“Maybe just a little bit.”
“Dude…”
“You’re still suffering from the effects o the drugs,” he told me, “Don’t judge me.”
“We’ve known each other for six years,” I said. “I still judge you every single day. That’s how fucked up you are.”
“Like the one that actually has a reason can speak.”
I blinked. “Der, Gerry, I can speak because I have a reason.”
“And today’s magic number is six,” Gerry stated, copying what was said on the television but moments ago, “with a side helping of fuck you.”
“That’s nice,” I casually continued, “although I’m quite heterosexual myself.”
“Heterosexuality’s overrated.”
I sigh, feeling the lingering headache. “Sometimes people forget that.”
“The human mind can think that everything’s a sex object, you know,” he continued. I started to feel uncomfortable, squirming a bit in my chair. He glanced over. “What, too psychological for you?”
“Nah, glad to see that your college major is doing you some good pounding your friend’s drug induced mind,” I said, “but next time, please don’t remind me that I could be jacking off in the bathroom because I could have a fetish for things that squirt water.”
Gerry gave me a shrug. “Hey, that is completely and totally not the worst fetishism case that I have had. Did you know this one time...”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I said, “Already have a headache.”
He gave me a glare, and returned his gaze to the screen. After a pause, he said, “This one guy thought that he had an Oedipus complex. You know what that is, right? It’s that thing where some guy really wants to bang his mother, which is pretty understandable in some cases, although many people other there consider such a thing to be this really messed up and fucking weird thing and that basically anyone who expresses such desires should be castrated.”
“Nice to know,” I started, knowing that he’ll ignore me anyways. “Although I personally consider that little tidbit not something I’d like to know or would, honestly, be nice to know.”
“So this one guy, who gets mother effin huge boners whenever his mother says a single sexual thing, pun intended, is totally suffering every single day, and he doesn’t have even close enough money to consider moving out. So he came to me asking me what to do, and I’m just like still reeling a bit about when he told me about how he saw his mother naked this one time as a kid, and I’m just thinking about what a huge screw he is, although obviously I’m not saying this aloud. Gotta look nice and compassionate, right?”
“Aren’t you used to screws like this?”
“What? Yeah, but this guy was like, my second real case ever, and I was totally stumped. So I just fed him about some New Age bullcrap about how you should be honest and true to yourself, and that he should consider being truthful to his mother, and if she rejects him it’s her fault.”
“Sounds like you just made that guy’s life like hell.”
“Not really, you’ll be surprised how often I bullcrap with that line or how many guys with Oedipus complexes there are in this world who are actually helped by that line,” Gerry said, finishing up the last bit of meat on his plate. Wiping his mouth, he continued, “So anyways, like that guy told me, he went home went day, taking my advice to heart. He was totally going to confess his love for his mother or his mother’s body, same thing in the end, like some little schoolyard crush.”
I glanced at Gerry. His voice was light and joking, but his eyes barely stared at the screen anymore. His voice said one thing, but he looked... bitter.
“So he comes home with this idiotic and insane idea, and then he knocks on his mom’s door, enters without even freaking waiting for any answer, and then he finds his mother naked. Yeah, completely and totally naked. The guy wasn’t that much older than me, and had him in her teens, so she was still pretty damn young and hot, I saw her, yeah.
“And so, he just stood there and stared, stared at his mother’s naked body, and she pushed him out. You wanna know the funny part? He was wearing skinny jeans, and it was pretty damn effing obvious that there was a hard as crap erection underneath, his words not mine. So he just stood outside, fiddling while he heard a whole bunch of crap inside, and then he tried to fiddle with the door. Turned out that the door was open. He then, with whatever though process or lack of in his head, decided to tell his naked mother right then and there that he wanted her body.”
“Quite funny,” I dryly remarked.
Gerry glanced over. “That wasn’t the punchline.”
“Oh.”
“What happens next might be the pnunchline,” Gerry continued. “The two screwed each other silly.”
I stared blankly ahead.
“Messed up, right?”
“Are you serious?” I asked, quite seriously myself.
“Damn straight. He told his mother, his mother kissed him, and then they started going at each other like rabbits. I can describe this crap in extreme detail, too, that guy had hella confidence talking to me next time.”
“So the moral of this story is…?” I started. Gerry laughed, a small and innocuous chuckle.
“That wasn’t the punchline either,” he told me. I frowned.
“Okay, what the hell was the punchline then?”
“His dad came home, and caught them.”
I stopped. We both started laughing. “Brings back memories.”
“Hell yeah it should.”
“What the fuck happened next?” I asked, finally and genuinely intrigued.
“The moral and punchline of the story happened next,” Gerry said, grinning now. “His dad joined in.”
Silence.
“Like… twosome became a…”
“Yep.”
“And the guy had no… problems…”
“Bisexual,” Gerry stated, “Like me. Didn’t really mind, apparently, as long as he got to bang his mom.”
“And the dad…”
“I don’t know,” he said, “and I don’t really care, because it took all of my willpower to not burst out laughing or barf from disgust as the guy told me about it.”
“So the moral of the story is…? You still fail to mention what it is.”
“Don’t screw your mother,” Gerry said, “unless you rather wish to be screwed by your father.”
“Figuratively or literally?”
“Both.”
I paused. My head ached from the sudden burst of laughter, but I barely noticed it anymore. “Are you sure that the moral isn’t something like certain things should best be quiet, honor your mother, don’t screw your family, something that’s actually moralistic?”
Gerry gave me an incredulous stare. “No.”
“I’m getting a drink,” I declared. “You do whatever the fuck you want with the TV.”
“Elmo’s World!” Gerry happily declared.
“Pedophile fuck,” I declared as I left.
“Paranoid psychopath,” Gerry responded, “You owe me for the bacon and eggs, remember!”
I paused. “But I didn’t eat them.”
Gerry looked genuinely confused. “But I did.”
I scowled, closing the door and feeling his laugh.