Grandeur Delusions

When you're a kid, you're imaginative
When you're an adult, you're deluded

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Something Crass

I shaved my junk for your mother. No, don’t take it the wrong way. I’m not planning on fucking around with dear old mumsy. I just feel, well, how do I explain this? I guess I feel it is more hygienic or more gentlemanly to have refined pubis than a mot of tangled growth. I won’t be telling her that I did this. That would be a strange talking point. I don’t even know how you broach that subject with someone else’s mother. “So before we came out to meet you tonight, I was in the lavatory, managing my man bush…” I’m sure that would go over well.

And while were on the subject, I don’t like it when people call their significant other “lover.” It’s gross. It would be like pointing to your friend and saying “that’s my masticator,” relegating them to one solitary act you participate in with them. So cut it out. You call me “lover” one more time and the next time we are in bed you’re getting a thumb in your ass. We’ll see who loves who then. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is, it bothers me that you want to watch porn with me. It is basically something private that I don’t want to share with the world. Just as neither you or I want to discuss with your mother why I decided to shave my genitals before having dinner with her, and just as I don’t want the world to know my association to you as “penis inserter,” I don’t feel it in my best interest to show you what images of nastiness have caked the periphery of my hard drive.
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If you have a girlfriend, boyfriend, eunuch, love doll, or sex slave, this is not a speech you want to give. That is why I keep it locked safely away in my skull, and now, the confines of the inter-webs.

Return to This Egg Sac [Sic]

I am finally home, done with traveling, pause from school, no pets to care for, no bodies to cremate. In New Orleans, I was promised bugs and muggy weather. I got very little of either. They must have migrated north to wait and prey on me when I returned to the good old O-hi-o. In my apartment, one fly. Humidity abound, but one solitary fly, circling the borders of every room like some kind of mirror-eyed real estate agent. And driving me mad. When I see the fly, I am reminded of infestation and I cringe.

A few years ago, things were unsanitary. The old place was a dumping ground for chip crumbs and lost ramen noodles. It could not be like that forever. Nature will take course, and so, the flies descended. I opened the apartment door one day and the television, which was on, and in use, was covered in black, moving smudges. My roommate was not in shock. He continued to play video games.

I swatted at flies with a dish towel like an enraged lion tamer for weeks. The more we killed, the more would exponentially appear. Fly strips hung from every ceiling, completely packed after only a few hours and then replaced. The sound of those things, as the flies twitched and buzzed, a fruit by the foot alive and crunchy. That sound never leaves you, even if you manage to walk away from it. The vibrations of so many flies, calling out with amazing singularity of fly, in an aggressive pitch not normally heard, to call out in distress and to warn away, it was cacophony, and it was madness.

I live in the new place now, and this fly is trying to drive me out. The wet, hot air doesn’t surprise me anymore, Ohio just can’t be comfortable, but I will get this fly. I have been chasing it with “fly-crusher” wash rag for twelve hours now. The “swack!” has been popping off of surfaces, scaring the neighbors, but they don’t know. None of them know.
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In Louisiana, I saw one cockroach. My very first one, in fact. It was dead. Squished by someone in the cafe I was standing in. I was not bothered. Apparently, cockroaches are too common for that state.

Any way, it’s been a while. Wanna get a drink?

The Most Patriotic Ninja

It is true, this job is different.  In the early morning, when the rain clouds have yet to burn their backs masking the sun from my streets, I am in the empty car port, sitting in my bathrobe at the peddle-driven grinding wheel.  My blade has to be sharp. It has to be more than sharp, it must be able to halve a house with little effort. And not your two-story wood siding shanty.  Brick and mortar, steel-reinforced mcmansion.  

I run to the office. I have to. This job requires physical dominance. My blade on my back, I dart from tree cover to parked car to street lamp, minimizing my visibility to the rest of the world. 

I am the first one in. I make the coffee, water the plants, and take my place at the  belt, a long rubber tongue spitting out letters to sort. I stand as the last line of defense against dangerous packages, poorly wrapped items, and incorrect postage, slicing and destroying these disturbing examples of “bad mail.”

I get paid well for my job. The government classifies my job as worthy of hazard pay. I make as much as a deep sea oil well driller, without the six month stint off shore. I love my government and I am well compensated.

I am the most patriotic ninja.
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Sometimes, I take a break from the bleak and pathetic. Sometimes. 

Under Collar Starch

I took the job. And now I know I’ve been so pretentious. I knew nothing about death. Absolutely nothing. I don’t have night terrors. My eating habits haven’t subsided, nor my hormone activity. Death is just death and it should be left alone. It is not beautiful, it is not frightening. It is where we all have to get to and fighting that is a waste of our time. You can all make death out to be some mystical, transformational force, but it’s just mildly sad. Nothing else. Not sad for the deceased or for humanity, just the select few who made the choice to love the dead. Man, life is going to be really different from now on…
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That wasn’t a dream. I took a job ferrying the dead. I’m on call, like a doctor, but not like a doctor, at all.

I Don’t Recognize April Fools Day

I am ready to quit life and start again, every day. Not die, you morbid twats. But change it all up. Not out of boredom or depression. I just want to live out every life path, all at once. I could crap on writing and teaching and sell my shoes to busk my way to Minnesota. Flat-tapping and drone-singing from bus stop to train depot until I made it to the chilly North-ish. I’d sup on potato chowders and wheels of farmer’s cheese, sharing my milky bounty with tramps and vino-soaked vagrants.

I could set fire to my car and claim a neighbor did it, collect on the paltry insurance and start a custom cork-screw shop. Spirals of all diameter and length, substance and grade, topped with hand-crafted, porcelain vegetable caricatures. My shop would be one part sales floor, one part observable smithery. I could wear a heavy bull-skin apron, lined with velvet and sealed to protect from sweat. 

I would shave my head, set up a freak show booth outside of cancer wards, and show off my bumpy, knocked melon to make the leukemia patients feel better about themselves. I’d steal one of those white Tuberculosis testing tents, paint red stripes all across the canvas flaps, and sit under a single spot light, chewing sunflower seeds and polishing my wavy dome under the hot lamp. I’d take my show from ward to ward, giving up the mask of my skull.

I will start an apiary in the empty apartment next to me, sewing my own keepers suit from old sheets and wrapping my shoes tight in plastic wrap. I would culture my own blend of honey, introducing the bees to artificial flowers, laced with powdered drink mix. This way I could make the purest of sandwich spreads and beverage enhancers: grape honey. I would only sell my goods at the fair-trade store down the street. This would cause a massive uptick in business, allowing them the room to expand, which would eventually lead to hypocritical business practices, buying from the cheapest vendors to support the monster I helped grow out of control.
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Above is a picture of how the last month of a semester of graduate school looks, and it is only April 2nd.