Sunday, January 31, 2010
aw, i ain't no kid. i've lived a thing or two in all these years. i've seen some shit go down. sharks tearing through human flesh like it was pancakes. men doing things men are not supposed to do. wars. streets. children with no shoes or toes. babies birthing babies half the size of they own self. blue thunder starring roy scheider. shit. depravity. i'm just sayin' that's where i'm comin' from when i tell you this story. i'm not a soft man. i ain't afraid of no ghost.
but this was somethin' else. their faces. bear faces. just imagine heads bigger 'an that kid on dawson creeks. teeth with gaps wider than tori spelling's cleavage. ugly. and taller than a mexican on stilts. but looks like a human not like an animal. arms and hands and legs but the way they move wasn't like no humans i ever seen. not like in the movies neither. them aliens in the movies they move like robots or like girls on the rag and they running but these aliens, oh i shoulda warned you. this story about aliens.
i had a gun on account of i was huntin' back there in the woods. just me an that's why nobody can verify what i'm tellin' you but i was there and i seen it and that's gotta be good enough because i ain't got no reason. no gains to tell you what i'm tellin' you unless lookin' foolish gets you rich someways, which i guess it does but no matter.
so it was lights comin' down and no spaceships or close encounters or e.t. type bullshit. just lights bright and sharp enough to burn a vagina into a marine like a laser but all over everywhere. blinding but i kept my eyes open 'n i saw the beasts materialize outter the lights. came out growlin' too and i didn't wait for nothin' i just started shootin' my gun right at those man beasts 'cause i know when somebody means somethin' and they meant somethin' from jump street.
bullets didn't do nothin' or i'll tell you i mighta not even hit 'em 'cause half the time i can't even hit no deers and they kept disappearing into thin air and reappearing right somewhere else. if it was a movie it would be george clooney in a suit and a bear mask and i'd be played by jamie foxx or jason bateman or john stamos someone who's a nice guy but who could fight dirty if his misses is gettin' raped in the alley. oh yeah, those bear face aliens were wearing suits. how do you like that shit. suits like they gonna fit in and then bear faces right on the top of it. some dumb aliens. then one come right up to my face like he gonna eat it for lunch and he says "we like 'em fat" and i says "well you come to the right place brother 'cause they all fat round here."
an he says "no i mean p.h.a.t. phat" an i says "that don't make no sense" and he looks sad like he was trying and it wasn't good enough and we went on and gassed for an hour or so and he was okay. i says "why you come at me like a devil in church and i coulda killed you with my bare knuckles" and outta nowhere he breaks out a mr. kotter impersonation and then he says "whazzup" like them kids in that beer commercial a few years back. i says to him "what the fuck is wrong with you? we were having a good conversation about life and love and global warming and then you bring this shit" and then i say "why you even here?" and he says he heard that the greatest american hero got cancelled and he wants to talk to some folks to see if he can get it back on the air. what the fuck? right. so then i tell him that's been off the box since a long time and he goes batshit like he's really gonna do some damage but he doesn't actually touch nothing but the trees.
then i tell him about some of the other shows that he might like but he's seen 'em all and nothin' else matches up to the greatest american hero. then just like they came they go again and then on the news yesterday i seen that william katt has disappeared. so that's why i'm here, that's why i'm tellin' you this. they done went and kidnapped william katt. that's what i'm sayin' and that's what i believe to be true.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
my mother spontaneously combusted. she used to sit on the kitchen bench and listen to records or read books or chat to her girlfriends on the phone while she cooked dinner. she'd pop down to stir a pot and then slide right back up onto her perch. she wore boots and i sat on the floor beneath her, listening and drawing, imagining. waiting for my dinner. lamb. onions. potatoes.
her name was vivian.
that's all for now.
a deep navy blue woollen dress with a thick red collar and hem. electric frying pan. a man. her hair was long. straight.
my feet were dirty. i didn't wear shoes.
that's enough for today.
stockings are hanging off the cupboard door. dangling. something's wrong. i'm there. i'm a boy. his hands are ...
i'm not ready.
i know him. from the pictures in the album under the boxes in the shed. i think it's my dad. i don't remember. she didn't tell me. nobody would tell me.
it's too much.
there's blood. the pan is burning. the cupboards are on fire. she's ... he's punching her.
there are flames on the ceiling. the phone is on the floor and i want to say something, somebody is screaming. screaming.
that's it. that's all. no. there's not any more.
her knees are burning. her legs. i can see her skin. melting. dripping. inside of her legs. actually inside. it's a bone. i can't look. she doesn't have a face. he's not on fire. he's wearing jeans. he's standing there. he's watching her. why isn't he burning. he won't look away. why aren't i burning?
i need to sleep now.
it smells like a train. i can't see any more. i don't know any more. i don't understand. i need to talk to someone. i need to find people who know. but everyone lives in ohio.
Friday, January 29, 2010
inside a house, inside a room, inside your head there is a song playing. listen to the song, get on the floor. feel your way, past that shelf. out the door. don't open your eyes. there's somebody else, inside the house, inside the room, inside your head. quiet. wait. it's not too late. listen to the song, loud, now sing the song, no, stop. something's wrong. the music, it's gone. no more sound, no more edges, the room is round, floor on the ceiling, doors on the ground. you can feel the lies now open your eyes and see the half that you despise. deal with him now, cut off his face, fight dirty, below the waist, eat his brains, swallow them down and savour the taste. it's him. or you, don't let him win. be the hate, rise up tough, dominate, it's not enough. you're slipping, hold your feet. no. it's too late now, he's got you beat. there's nothing else to do. that half of you is dead. succumb to him. inside his head, inside his room, inside his house. another song is playing.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
i want you to go and die in a hole. i don't want you to scream or complain. i don't want it to be a hassle. i just want you to go away and die.
i will visit your hole after you die. i will walk around the edges of the hole and i will look down inside it. i will confirm that your lifeless body is rotting in the hole.
i will be careful not to lose my footing and fall into the hole. i do not want to land on top of you. i do not want your decomposing skin to get on my clothes and in my hair. it probably wouldn't smell good. my pants are dry clean only.
when your mother asks for you i will hang up the phone. when she calls again i will tell her that you are gone. she will cry and i will say "i don't know."
i will come home from work and talk to you and then i will remember that you have died in a hole. i won't talk to anybody.
i will sleep on your side of the bed. i can't sleep on your side of the bed. i will roll over and sleep on my side of the bed. i will look at your pillow and your head will not be smooshed up in it. i will think about that day in the snow and in the sunshine. you said it wasn't a snow man. it is just a big blob with a carrot in it. it's a snow blob with a penis. i will laugh about that day and then i will cry.
in the morning i will make too much oatmeal for breakfast. i will squeeze honey on the top in the shape of a heart and i will not eat it. i will leave it on the table and i won't be able to throw it away.
at work daryl will ask me where we were last night. i will think about slamming daryl's head into the printer. i will tell him that you are gone. i will tell him "i don't know." i will go back to my desk and i will look at that picture and think about that night at the christmas party. that was when you had short hair. i won't be able to get any work done.
i will get in my car and drive and i will say "e.t. phone home" and the car robot will dial our house phone. your voice will tell me that we are not home. i will park the car on the side of the road. i will look at trucks and cars and think maybe one of them will veer out of their lane and crash into me. i will think about dying.
i will come home and it will be dark. i will open the fridge door and leave it open and i will sit in the rectangle of light on the floor and eat cheese. i will wake up in the morning on the kitchen floor and the milk probably won't be any good.
i will get back in my car and i won't go to work. i will drive to the beach and think about that day. you got hit by that wave and you swallowed the water and you laughed so hard and you vomited in the beach. i tried to swish it around before anybody else could see. people don't want to swim in somebody else's vomit. you laughed again and we ate grapes because you always bring grapes to the beach.
i will take my suit off and i will swim in the beach in my underwear. my boxers have my name across the band at the top and i don't know where you got them. they are really comfortable. i will be lonely swimming in the beach. i will go under water and cry and when i come back up i will wish that you did not go away and die in a hole.
i will build a sandcastle and i will lay on top of it and i will dare the sun to burn me in my skin.
i will go back to your hole and i will look down inside of it and your body will be gone.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
these college kids are tiny little people. babies with beer bongs and books and they lay out on the same patch of grass that we did enjoying the weather but their conversations are not as clever. smoking dope in their skinny jeans and miniskirts; ironic t's. they share notes and jokes and STDs. i step on them with my grown up feet and they laugh and dance to the beat of a song that i tried listening to. it's crap. that one kid looks like john cusack in say anything. i'm so old.
i am a coke or a sixty inch lcd television. she is single, female, middle-class, age 18 to 49, and college educated. she doesn't want to buy me. girls drink fresca. they buy shampoo.
she parks her motorbike on the footpath.
"you can't park there," says some guy.
"up yours, slut" she says to the guy.
"i'm not a slut," says the guy. "how can i be a slut?"
she doesn't answer him. she goes into the shop.
she says to the shop girl "give me the hugest most gigantic cup of coke you have because i'm going to drink it down my gullet and then get another one. i am so fucking thirsty. please."
the shop girl gets the girl two of the hugest most gigantic cups of coke you could imagine. the girl drinks them both down her gullet. the shop girl smiles at the girl and says "shit."
the girl says "yeah" and then leaves the shop. she sees a 60 inch lcd television pull up next to her motorbike. it's 1080p and she likes it. she wants it. she wants to watch grey's anatomy and lost on it.
there she is again. leather pants, god. i'm going to die of a hard on. but girls don't care how big their televisions are. i should just forget about her.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
i'd like to know a girl in boots and a skirt and a shirt, hoop earrings and long brown hair. too much eyeliner we'd meet in a diner and eat. a hamburger or a reuben and a drink. a chocolate milkshake and she'd have something to tell me and it couldn't wait. a key, it's for me and why is she crying, she's happy. it's love. and that's the girl i'd like to know but it's okay if she doesn't wear boots.
she has a two year contract on the sydney to L.A. and she likes it. flying there, flying back. she's young and it's fun. but a couple of weeks ago she had a dream about ashton kutcher and a lot of girls dream about ashton kutcher but this was a bad dream. in the dream he was flying first class and she was his flight attendant and he said to her "i can't tell if you're a woman or a girl" and she giggled and the next thing she new she was getting raped in the cockpit by ashton kutcher and the pilots were all dead with blood on their faces and one of them was bruce willis and the plane was spiraling out of control, down towards the ocean below. then suddenly this was all happening to her in a tv show and a couple was on the couch watching her get raped.
"oh no," said the girl on the couch. "it's okay," said the boy. "she's got the hammer."
then in the dream there was a hammer in her hand and she could hear the boy saying "hit him in the face with the hammer." she didn't want to hit ashton kutcher in the face with a hammer but he was raping her and the boy just kept saying "come on, hit him with the hammer."
so in the dream she hit ashton kutcher in the face with the hammer. his teeth exploded into a million tiny diamonds and they rolled up hill, out of the cockpit, into the main cabin. the passengers all piled into the aisleway and onto the floor and they were stuffing their pockets with ashton kutcher's diamond teeth. then ashton kutcher jumped out of the plane. he had a parachute.
so when she got the call from operations, she cried. they asked her to be first alternate for first class. that's a big deal. especially since she'd heard that dierdre was pregnant. first class. first alternate. but that also meant that the dream might be coming true.
"i'm not going to take it" she told her girlfriends. "i'll just stay back in economy."
"but first class is your dream," they said.
and it was so she took it and now here she is, sydney to L.A., and she's in first class and so is ashton kutcher.
she brings him a coke and he's nice and he's chatting to the woman next to him and then he glances up at her. "i can't tell if you're a woman or a girl," he says.
"i'm a woman," she says to ashton kutcher.
he smiles, his teeth gleaming, and he laughs.
then she hears that voice again. "hit him with the hammer."
she checks her hand for the hammer but it isn't there so she asks him if he wants another coke and he does.
after they land she sees ashton kutcher outside of the airport getting into a limousine. he sees her too and he nods and waves her over. "we're having a party," he says. "you should come." he hands her a card with an address on it. "no thanks," she says. "i've got plans."
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
whenever she meets a man she asks him a simple question. "if you were a criminal, what kind of criminal would you be?"
that's how she screens the freaks out.
"a bank robber" is what the boring ones say.
"an arsonist" one guy says. "i would burn things down to the ground. buildings. buildings with people in them. buildings with old people in them. i would burn all the old folks down to the ground."
"i'd be a rapist" another guy admits. "not the bad kind. not vicious or violent. i would date rape girls and they wouldn't even really know about it. i would poison them with ghb and then wait until they were asleep and then i would make love to them under their skirts and underpants. i would rape them."
"murderer" another guy says, a little bit too quickly. "with a knife and i would stab it into my wife's face and into her body." she didn't know he was married.
"i would speed in my car," one man says. "past the cops and i would just keep on going. faster and faster and they wouldn't catch me or if they did i would get out and run into the woods or into somebody's backyard."
these are all men she did not date.
"i'd send e-mails to people and tell them about giant penises and ask them to send money and i would send thousands and thousands and thousands of e-mails and even if only a couple of hundred people sent me money it would be worth it."
"i'd punch people right in their nads or in their noses."
"vandal. i would throw bricks into windows and on top of toilets and bash televisions in with a baseball bat."
these men she did not date either.
"a thief. i'd steal fedex boxes from people's doorsteps and open them up like it was christmas day."
she went to dinner with that guy and a movie but things didn't work out. he smoked and there just wasn't any chemistry i guess.
no, no, no.
then finally, a man, a handsome man, says "a criminal? no, i wouldn't be a criminal." and she says, "just answer the question" and he says "okay, i guess i'd be a ...."
but she cuts him off and says "no, don't tell me. i don't want to know."
Sunday, January 17, 2010
the doctors, they say her diarrhea is fulminant. it occurs suddenly, without warning. it is intense and severe. explosive. and the smell. oh, that horrible smell. it's rancid. all things considered, this fulminant diarrhea is an ailment with which she would rather not be afflicted. it has no advantages, particularly of the social variety.
so on the evening of july 19, in the year 1837, as she is preparing for the dance of 1,000 gentlemen, her dressers wrap her asshole tight with cellophane. "what if it leaks?" they ask. "what if it leaks on HIM?"
"i will die of embarrassment," she tells them. "simply die."
then she prays. not to any god that you or i are likely to pray to; she prays to the lord of human excrement.
"do not forsake me, my lord, not on this evening. this one evening, my lord, i ask of you. seal my bottom shut."
then, as if in response to her prayers, a deep rumble reverberates through her stomach and colon.
"have i displeased thee, my lord? must you be vengeful on this very eve?"
and then splat. and rip and splat. the cellophane cannot contain the massive load of liquid shit. it's in her stockings, seeping through the fine silk netting. one of her dressers boldly attempts to stem the tide with her hands. the other vomits and runs.
she's in the bath now. clean again. a new dress has been fetched. her second choice, lovely but seen before. her bathers towel her off. she is cellophaned once more.
she arrives at the dance of 1,000 gentlemen, nervous, walking carefully. she dares not taste the shallot madelaines. 1,000 likely gentlemen do indeed fill the ballroom. twirling and smirking, their steps only outdone by their wit. handsome, all of them, but especially the one for whom she came. she waits.
half the night has slipped away and still she waits, vexing over 500 hundred would be suitors. her companions, the lady of redford and the lady of somerville, encourage her to dance. "practice," they say, "with an ordinary man." and well she might had she not the need to clench her buttocks so fully.
now he approaches, tall and of moustache. a pocket watch and a monocle. his conversation is joyous and clever. his dancing is in rhythm with her heart and not her heart. a part of her that is warm and throbbing. she has managed not to shit all over herself. she is happy.
then the evening comes to a close. the hall has emptied, partners have been chosen and not chosen and the laughter follows the crowd into the warm night air. he and her, flirting and he offers her a ride home in his carriage. she politely refuses, then with decorum dispensed, accepts.
in the carriage he holds her hand and inquires about the wellbeing of her father.
she loses control of her bowels.
again the cellophane does not hold. the carriage is filled with her fulminant feces. the stench is unbearable. he tries to outmaneuver the river of shit but he cannot escape his dreaded fate. it's on him. IT'S ON HIM.
she is horrified and she laughs. she cannot stop. she laughs and she laughs.
"can you not stop your laughter?" he says earnestly. "a terrible thing has happened."
"i cannot stop," she admits and then proceeds to laugh some more.
back at his house she is escorted to the bath. she is soaked and scrubbed. she is dressed in his sister's clothes.
she returns to find him playing the piano. he is playing it well.
"i must apologize," she says to him. "i have no control. it is a suffering that i shall know until the day i die."
"nonsense," he says. "there is a cure to be found. of that i am certain."
weeks and months pass before she sees him again. he has ridden the three miles to her house and he asks for her by name.
"these days without you i have been on a quest," he says. "and i have finally found a potion that will heal your rapid stooling."
"i have missed you so," she says, "and i do not want to doubt you. but housemaids and doctors have failed in this quest and i have come to accept it in my heart and in my colon. do not raise my hopes if there is no truth in your words."
"it is from the town," he says, "where they know about such ailments. it is laudanum and they say it is such that your bowels and your demeanor will be suitable for marriage."
"are you asking for my hand in marriage?"
"indeed i am," says the gentleman. "assuming this potion is good."
"let us begin immediately," she says.
at first she drinks but two drops with her tea in the morning and again two drops at night. within days her diarrhea is no more. her mind is clear and her pantaloons are clean. she is ecstatic.
the wedding is ordered and consummated and there is great passion between the two.
but slowly she increases her dosage. six drops then 10. he worries that it is too much. her mind is addled. she is confused and lazy. she does not dress until bed time and she dances without music. 15 drops now.
"i won't go back," she says. "i haven't shit in weeks."
"it's killing you," he says. "us."
15 drops becomes 30 and then 40. he threatens to deny her the potion entirely. she begs him. she will reduce her dose at least. he does not believe her. she says she will shit on his face.
and it is worse and worse. soon she is bedridden and catatonic. then she is dead.
he is distraught and he blames himself. he throws the empty bottles and the full ones out the window.
"ouch," says someone. it is her sister. the bottles have hit her on the head.
"oops," he says, out of the window. "sorry."
her sister has a lump on her head and she is attended to in the house. he apologizes. she talks to him and consoles him. she assures him that she is not with the shits. her stools are regular and firm.
not two months following the death of his first wife, the gentleman marries the sister. they are happy and they live on until they die.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
dear kania rahadianti purnomo,
you don't know me but i've seen your name floating about. here and there. i like it.
you probably already know this but kania is polish for "elliott gould."
and in hindi, rahadianti means "was not in"
and purnomo is italian for "diner (the movie)."
i wonder what you look like. you probably look like elliott gould. with big tits. that's cool. i like elliott gould. he was in one of my favourite movies. it's called "diner" and it's about a group of chums who love to eat pancakes. it's set in the eighties and elliott gould plays this character called steve guttenburg. it's so great, you should watch it. blockbuster probably has it. i don't know, maybe not. the blockbuster near me only has three of the seven police academy series. one, two, and seven. that's weird, right? i mean, if they were going to just have three, why not one, two, three. one is the best obviously but after that number three is probably second. it's called back in training.
anyway, sometimes when i can't sleep i google your name just because i like to see it and read it and last night i noticed you have a facebook account. it says you have 869 friends. whoah, that's a lot of friends. i only have 44. part of me thinks "really? 869?" but then another part of me is more like "yeah, good on you."
you are probably really nice. that's why you have so many friends. i'm nice too but i don't have that many friends. i don't really understand how that works. maybe you're more outgoing than me.
well, i better finish up. you probably have a lot of catching up to do with all your friends. i really just wanted to tell you that i like your name. it's nice.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
more than a friend back then i knew her in her bones and her face and her brains and her taste. music in the night and the occasional fight. drinking and thinking. sinking, skin burning on the vinyl beanbag. every morning talking and laughing. proust and eggs to untangle our legs. smoke in our lungs, not old and not young, just enjoying our time. was it a day or a month? a year? jumping and flying, diving and landing. around and back and back again. that's just how it was back then.
but she's older now. got some money, had some fame. drives a minivan with a name; the nimbus of the baptized god. a dog. kids in the back. fade to black.
it will never be the same.
she has a bed in a room with windows and walls and in the bed is a boy who is fondling his balls. on the walls, a poster of dawson from dawson's creek. she gazes out the window at the girls in the street. they are dancing and playing and singing. no shoes on their feet.
but she's with him every hour of every night, every day of every week, every minute of every second, every box of every triangle, every freddie of every prinze. his name is pete.
"pete," she says. "peter."
"let's go again," he says.
"we need to talk," she says. her name is fiona, he calls her fee.
"oh fee, i agree," he says. "if by talk you mean fuck."
"i do," she says. "if by fuck you mean talk. and if by talk you mean oh hey guess what i'm pregnant."
"i don't believe in babies," says pete. "i don't believe they're real. like spaceships and jesus, jellyfish and lasers, grizzly bears, robots, 10% raises."
"i don't believe in you," says fee.
"i'm real," says pete. "real ready for you to come over here and sit on my penis."
"if you were dawson you'd help me here," says fee.
"if i was dawson i'd pay for an abortion and fuck your sister in the vagina."
"my sister's three," says fee. "she doesn't have a vagina yet."
"then i'd fuck your mum with my fingers and tongue."
"gross," says fee. "my mum is old. but really, what should i do?"
"how about i beat the tony out of your danza and move to tasmania and you can raise it by yourself."
"it's cold in tasmania," says fee.
"that's true i guess, so what can we do?".
nobody knows now, not even pete. she still has a bed in a room with windows and walls but in the bed there are pillows and dolls. on the walls, a calendar with a countdown to college. she climbs out the window and joins the girls in the street. they all dance and play and sing. no shoes on their feet.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
since the t-shirt line was so successful i've decided to launch a a new line of women's underwear. they will look just like regular women's underpants except they will have cute slogans on the front. like bumper stickers for the vadge. here is what they will say:
- authorised personnel only
- no dumping
- danger high voltage
- parking in rear
- slow down
- if you can read this you are too close
- radioactive materials
- obey signals
- dead end
- no trespassing
- do not enter
- no cameras
- for rent
- consume at own risk
Labels: all the things on the internet you could search for why are you searching for women's underwear
Saturday, January 09, 2010
7:50pm: a 12.37kg meteorite crashes into a parked chevrolet malibu in peekskill, new york.
7:53pm: robots explode out of the meteorite and rampage through the streets.
7:54pm: no, that didn't happen. the meteorite just crashed into the car and a lady came out of the house because she heard a loud bang.
7:55pm: the robots shoot the lady in the face with their deathrays of death and her head melts all over her sweater.
7:56pm: stop it. there aren't any robots. it's just a meteorite that comes flying out of the sky at 80 meters per second and it smashes into a car. that's it.
7:57pm: and then the robots climb into the car and...
7:58pm: no. the car is broken. a meteorite just crashed into the car. there is no way a robot could just climb in and drive away.
7:59pm: busted! you just admitted there were robots.
8:00pm: jesus christ. there are no robots. just transcribe the fucking incident for the fucking incident report.
8:01pm: the lady's head reconstitutes itself and rolls around. the lady isn't human. the headless body grabs the reanimated head and squishes it back on to her neck. she is alive.
8:03pm: you're a douchebag. we're going to have to type this whole thing up all over again.
8:04pm: the zombie nonhuman lady chases the robots. she is dumb and slow but as strong as a hardon in tight underpants.
8:05pm: i'm out of here.
8:06pm: the robots and the zombie nonhuman lady freeze. they hear something. it's a human. an incident transcriptionist. he's moving across the lawn.
8:07pm: [no entry]
8:08pm: oh my god, the robots and the nonhuman zombie lady team up. they are going nutso ballutso on the transcriptionist dude. oh, stop, please. so messy.
8:09pm: [no entry]
8:10pm: the robots and the zombie nonhuman lady are finished with the transcriptionist. a robot kicks his head into outer space. they spot another transcriptionist sitting across the street typing something. they go over to him and introduce themselves. turns out they are pretty cool. they tell the transcriptionist to quit his job.
8:11pm: the transcriptionist types FUCK YOU and FUCK YOUR JOB UP YOUR BALLS. the transcriptionist will now party with the robots and zombie nonhuman lady and never ever come back to this stupid job. it will be awesome.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
the fire and the wine and the words in the air, alone, together, a blanket and a chair. they're talking about their future. he is stroking her hair and her eyes are heavy and she's drifting off to sleep. he looks outside, dark but light. the snow looks pure tonight.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
a story that does not contain all the song titles from LL COOL J's 1989 album "walking with a panther"
i can't quite make it out. it's a woman. she's over there. she's bending over. she has a bag. what's in the bag? she's getting something out of the bag. it's hair. big clumps of hair. why does she have hair in her bag? there's no conceivable reason why she would have hair in her bag. now she's holding a prosthetic buttocks in her hand. she's putting it on. she's sliding the prosthetic buttocks down the back of her sweat pants. it's on. now she's stuffing the hair back into her bag. she's walking. she's coming over here. she's saying something.
"where you at?"
what does she mean where am i at? i'm right here, directly in front of her. why is she asking me where am i at? how can i answer that. i'm going to tell her that i'm right here in front of her face. i'm going to ask her why she has hair in her bag.
"you're supposed to be here an hour ago."
she's not talking to me. she has a phone. she's talking to someone on the phone. they were supposed to be here an hour ago.
"this is some bullshit."
she's hanging up the phone. she's looking at me. why does she have hair in her bag? i don't know why someone would walk around with a bag full of hair.
"excuse me, do you know what time it is?"
it's time for you to tell me what's in the bag. that's what i'm going to say. and why is it in there?
"oh never mind."
she is looking at her phone. she probably has a clock on her phone.
"my partner is supposed to be here."
i already know about her partner. i'm going to change the subject. oh, she's talking again.
"can you tell me where the ping-pong is?"
she's not going to tell me about the hair.
"oh, look, i'll follow them."
there are people and they have bags and they are wearing t-shirts that say ping-pong. she's following them. she yells something. she catches up. she recognizes someone. they are chatting now. she holds her bag up and slaps it. the other one nods.
for christ's sake. why on earth does she have hair in her bag?
he tells her about centrifugal force. "it does not actually exist," he says.
"i'm spinning around you," she says. "i can feel it pushing me away."
"you are in a non-inertial coordinate system," he says. "your frame of reference is skewed."
"no," she says, "my grip is slipping, i can't hold on."
"then you don't have enough centripetal force," he says. "you need to lean in towards me."
"just press the button," she says. "i want to get off."
"i'll slow it down," he says. "i won't let you fall off."
"that's a dick move," she says. "just let me off."
"i'm going to make it go faster now," he says.
"then i'm letting go," she says.
"we're too high up," he says. "you'll hurt yourself."
"i'm going to throw my phone at you," she says. "i'm going to throw it right at your stupid head."
"don't forget to account for the coriolis," he says.
"don't forget to stop being such a gigantic nerd," she replies. "come on, just press the button."
"okay," he says. "on one condition."
"anything," she says. "except the robots."
"the robots," he says.
"i can't hold on," she says.
"the robots," he says again.
"okay, okay, anything," she says. "turn it off."
"say it," he says. "say the robots."
"ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," she says. she is falling. it's a long way down. she is hurt. she's bleeding.
he tells her about gravity. "don't underestimate it," he says. "nine point eight metres per second squared is faster than it sounds."
Sunday, January 03, 2010
they've been together for 4.6 billion years. their love is intense. so intense that nuclear reactions take place. they know, however, that everything will end in another five billion years or so. he will fuse helium. she will swell up. they will swallow the earth. their surface temperature will rise. it will fall. they will try to reclaim what they have now. ultimately, though, their love, their intrinsic brightness, will decline into nothingness.
Friday, January 01, 2010
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his life is not a struggle. his marriage is good. his work is fulfilling and his boss is reasonable. he did not have to borrow money from his brother to pay for his daughter's abortion. he is successful. people like him. he is confidant and attractive. his friends ask him where he buys his shirts. he has friends. the membranes in his nostrils have not been worn thin by daily cocaine use. he has made good decisions. he did not have a heart attack when he was 29. he does not have to leave his shoes on the window sill because his feet smell okay. he wants to get out of bed. he does not hate his ugly face. he isn't fat. he is not going to die alone.