talk politics and throw stones.
i have a friend who has no friends, only notches under her bootleg gucci belt. yes, i'm a potential prey, but i call her a friend. but last time we hung out we sat on the edge of her sanity. then, it was so trivial. "la cocaina no es buena para su salud/la cocaina is not good for you". i kinda have that in a loop. we talked gta and children, and i was not at all distracted, or attracted, by/to her alcohol stench. she smelled like our house used to smell on sunday evenings before we learned God and forgiveness. so we talked.
but everything that comes out of our mouths doesn't mean anything at all. her cousin margaret has set up a live webcam, which she uses to entertain viewers by rolling around on the carpeted floor, fully clothed, while sucking on a lollipop. that is it, that was all. she mentioned how she encountered the "odd" pervert who wanted to see her feet. and i'm suppose to laugh at that because it's so funny. her cousin was fifteen then.
after the inevitable criticizing and mocking of each other's music tastes, we slipped into a coma. and paused. this is very important.
certain music needs rhythm.
she explained to me the rhythms of her daily rites and habits. "i wake up, pray a tried-n-true recycled prayer before i wash my mouth, then right before i exit the bathroom i kneel 5 or 14 times repeatedly- sometimes it's 5, sometimes 14. the key is numbers, and avoiding certain numbers: evens, sixes, nines, and the ones that if turned upside down still make sense(88, 808, 906, 888). this is what i do before i eat a breakfast i won't enjoy because the fear of choking is usually stronger in the morning." okay. but there had to be rhythm while performing these rituals, or else it wouldn't work. check the door locks in 4/4; turn off the tv after switching to 35, to 10, back to 35 (35+10+35=80), three times, in 3/4; and so on. though sometimes rhythm is the main mover, with disregard to numbers she should avoid. but above all, avoiding the number 916 was the most important of all her rituals. clearly, numbers are not the enemy here; it's the images of clogged arteries and cancerous cells and strangers breaking into her house and other sick mental pictures. if these trivial tasks are not performed, her life could be in danger. i had nothing to say. she put her hand on my shoulder, squeezed it carefully, and asked what was i up to. politics as usual.
now here's a fun fact: apparently, sufferers of these rituals are usually smart, above-average intelligent, since the very nature of the disorder requires complicated and intricate thinking patterns. everyday i thank God for my dumbness and below average iq.
we also talked films. and fat. there was a video recording of her that prove the people who call her "nothing" and a "waste of space" right. we're not bringing it up; i'm thinking it, just wondering what does it say about me that at that very moment i saw her as the most beautifullest thing in the world.
"as chronical facial disorders occur
I'll assassinate your character's caliber
I channel my anger, from the double edged banger
and turn into the microphone strangler
stop tryin to see where your eyes can't follow
say goodnight to the world and goodbye to tomorrow"
but this didn't last long. i build walls for a living, and i'm very good at it. i've listened. she's quiet, looking around, smiling if we trade looks. then suddenly it daunts on me: she's waiting for me to let her in too- because the idea is we're supposed to be exchanging horror stories? no. i panic. and panic.
"...various commitments, secret or overt [that] determine our response to the work."
"so, still single, eh?"
i guess. but i'be been reading wayne c. booth and-
"what? you just made that up, didn't you?"
no, look it up. the politics of art is what i'm into. you have numbers to avoid, i have rules to learn. devices to exploit. you party, i read communist literature.
"communist propaganda is not literature."
your mom is not literature. it's not propaganda.
"you're right. it's soap. detergent. to wash your brains."
this is stupid.
"you're stupid. let's do something tonight."
what?
"anything. i'm bored. i wanna do something. now. anything. anything."
anything?
"anything."
i have a friend who has no friends, only notches under her bootleg gucci belt. yes, i'm a potential prey, but i call her a friend. but last time we hung out we sat on the edge of her sanity. then, it was so trivial. "la cocaina no es buena para su salud/la cocaina is not good for you". i kinda have that in a loop. we talked gta and children, and i was not at all distracted, or attracted, by/to her alcohol stench. she smelled like our house used to smell on sunday evenings before we learned God and forgiveness. so we talked.
but everything that comes out of our mouths doesn't mean anything at all. her cousin margaret has set up a live webcam, which she uses to entertain viewers by rolling around on the carpeted floor, fully clothed, while sucking on a lollipop. that is it, that was all. she mentioned how she encountered the "odd" pervert who wanted to see her feet. and i'm suppose to laugh at that because it's so funny. her cousin was fifteen then.
after the inevitable criticizing and mocking of each other's music tastes, we slipped into a coma. and paused. this is very important.
certain music needs rhythm.
she explained to me the rhythms of her daily rites and habits. "i wake up, pray a tried-n-true recycled prayer before i wash my mouth, then right before i exit the bathroom i kneel 5 or 14 times repeatedly- sometimes it's 5, sometimes 14. the key is numbers, and avoiding certain numbers: evens, sixes, nines, and the ones that if turned upside down still make sense(88, 808, 906, 888). this is what i do before i eat a breakfast i won't enjoy because the fear of choking is usually stronger in the morning." okay. but there had to be rhythm while performing these rituals, or else it wouldn't work. check the door locks in 4/4; turn off the tv after switching to 35, to 10, back to 35 (35+10+35=80), three times, in 3/4; and so on. though sometimes rhythm is the main mover, with disregard to numbers she should avoid. but above all, avoiding the number 916 was the most important of all her rituals. clearly, numbers are not the enemy here; it's the images of clogged arteries and cancerous cells and strangers breaking into her house and other sick mental pictures. if these trivial tasks are not performed, her life could be in danger. i had nothing to say. she put her hand on my shoulder, squeezed it carefully, and asked what was i up to. politics as usual.
now here's a fun fact: apparently, sufferers of these rituals are usually smart, above-average intelligent, since the very nature of the disorder requires complicated and intricate thinking patterns. everyday i thank God for my dumbness and below average iq.
we also talked films. and fat. there was a video recording of her that prove the people who call her "nothing" and a "waste of space" right. we're not bringing it up; i'm thinking it, just wondering what does it say about me that at that very moment i saw her as the most beautifullest thing in the world.
"as chronical facial disorders occur
I'll assassinate your character's caliber
I channel my anger, from the double edged banger
and turn into the microphone strangler
stop tryin to see where your eyes can't follow
say goodnight to the world and goodbye to tomorrow"
but this didn't last long. i build walls for a living, and i'm very good at it. i've listened. she's quiet, looking around, smiling if we trade looks. then suddenly it daunts on me: she's waiting for me to let her in too- because the idea is we're supposed to be exchanging horror stories? no. i panic. and panic.
"...various commitments, secret or overt [that] determine our response to the work."
"so, still single, eh?"
i guess. but i'be been reading wayne c. booth and-
"what? you just made that up, didn't you?"
no, look it up. the politics of art is what i'm into. you have numbers to avoid, i have rules to learn. devices to exploit. you party, i read communist literature.
"communist propaganda is not literature."
your mom is not literature. it's not propaganda.
"you're right. it's soap. detergent. to wash your brains."
this is stupid.
"you're stupid. let's do something tonight."
what?
"anything. i'm bored. i wanna do something. now. anything. anything."
anything?
"anything."
