Fucking hungry. Always hungry, but I’m sure it’s just the pills. They make me hungry. It’s all bullshit anyway. Product of my imagination. Neurons firing making me think I’m hungry. Maybe that’s why I’m gaining weight. I should cut back. Chocolate sounds good. Ah, forget it. There isn’t enough chocolate in the world to satisfy my hunger, and it’ll just make me sick anyway. I hate chocolate. Too damn sweet.
I was walking down the street the other day when I tripped. I cut myself on a broken beer bottle, but it isn’t too bad.
“Fuck, that hurts!” is what I said, but it was a lie.
I got up off my clumsy ass and held my hand out under the street light to get a good look at my severed skin.
Perhaps it was a bad cut. My palm would have a scar for the rest of my life, or its life, whatever. Maybe science will let my palm live on without me when I die. I don’t want to die. Can’t science make me live instead of my stupid palm? Bullshit, I say.
So, I was walking down the street the other day when I tripped and cut myself on a broken beer bottle, but I kept going to my meeting, letting the blood drip from my fingertips. My club mates would think it badass of me to just sit there, bleeding, like I didn’t even notice. Even though it fucking hurt.
Three more blocks to go. Not many people out walking the streets tonight. They’re probably drinking alone in their apartments, masturbating to censored girls gone wild commercials cause they can’t afford porn, wishing their lives would improve somehow, but not making any localized effort to actually fix what’s wrong. It’s pitiful really, glad I used to do it.
Did I just feel rain? No, must be some kind of leaky pipe dripping on me. Definitely raining from the great pipe in the sky. Acid rain. My skin itches. It’s either from withdrawals or the rain. Probably the rain. I’m not addicted to anything. I’m not addicted to anything. I’m not addicted to anything. I’m not addicted to anything. I’m not addicted to anything.
I opened the door to my top-secret clubhouse. I smelled piss and urine. There was also a pee stench floating around. I should probably clear out the rats, or maybe the cats I let loose in here to kill the rats. I hope I didn’t just step in cat poop. Oh well, I was at the club house. Things are significantly easier to swallow in life if you have friends around. That is true. Well… not semen. That’s never easy to swallow. I don’t know how porn stars do it. I tried a few times and vomited on my boyfriends balls. Then he beat me. Then I killed him.
“Can I get a high five for cause and effect!” I called out to my clubhouse brethren. They cheer for me and give me high fives and pats on the back. One guy got blood on his hand and he licked it off and smiled. I’ll probably fuck him later tonight, just for that cute smile.
I want some coffee—
“Attention, maggots!” I called out to my group of friends. “Tonight is the night!” I held my hands above my head in triumph, dripping blood down my wrist. There was dead silence. There was a deeply held anticipation brewing in every mind. There was hopefulness and gratefulness and general awesomness in every heart. This was our calling. This was our club.
Cute smile’s head exploded while I was letting the anticipation grow with my impending announcement. Apparently it was too much for him. Whatever. Some tentacles shot out of his ragged neck hole. No sex tonight.
Confusion spread through the room as people were being splattered with blood and brain matter. A little bit of skull dug into a woman’s eye with the force of the explosion. When people started to notice what was going on, they froze in their place. One tentacle lashed out a bone razor end and cut clean through the biggest man in the room. He tried to scream, but his lungs were severed in the cut and couldn’t hold the air pressure.
I’m not one to wait around when I lose control of a situation, so my plan was to immediately regain control of the situation. I whipped out my H&K USP Tactical .45 and took aim. Unfortunately I whipped it just a little hard and the gun flew out of my hands and smacked monster cute smile right in the chest. Darn butterfingers.
A razor tentacle flicked at my head, but I dove to my left, rolling to safety. I picked up a chair and pretty much went ape shit on the monster, smashing the body to a messy pulp before picking up the USP and firing a single shot into the heart of monster cute smile.
Some dude was crying in a corner, some guy had his arm around him, comforting him. I would find out later that cute smile was crying guy’s boyfriend. Comforting dude would take advantage of the sadness and use crying guy for sex and whatnot. Where’s my coffee?
There is no better combination in sandwich lore than the ham and swiss on wheat. The salty ham perfectly complements the ever-so-slightly bitter swiss cheese, and the… toughness of the swiss makes for a nice textural contrast to the bread. Adding in some honey mustard and miracle whip adds for a wetness that contrasts with the dry cheese and bread, and if the ham was prepackaged in the supermarket, it likely has been slightly dehydrated, furthering the desire for mustard and whip. There are only a few downsides to such a sandwich. For those of you looking out for your cholesterol, you should be careful to note that the cheese, ham and miracle whip all contain cholesterol. The bread and mustard do not. The reason one would use wheat bread on the sandwich is that the extra fiber helps to eliminate some of the “bad” cholesterol in your sandwich. But I digress.
When my club members slowly regained their senses, they noticed me standing heroically over the monster, gun in hand, chair at feet. I kicked its ass and they fucking knew it. Soon, a tremendous applause broke out as every person realized that they had survived what would have been certain death if I hadn’t stepped up and saved them all. Well, they all realized it except for the big guy that got sliced in half. Sucks to be him.
Anyway, I told everyone to go home and get some rest and we’d meet next week. The events of the evening seemed to have erased everyone’s memory of me beginning to make an announcement. That’s okay, cause I really didn’t have an announcement to make. Pretty lucky really, that cute smile’s head exploded.
I began my trek home through the city slums, looking up at the sick-orange sky from all of the pollution and lights. It needed to change. Now, if possible, but I didn’t see it happening. Even though I had garnered legions of followers, I hadn’t gained the important ones, the ones that had political sway that could actually make a difference. I just had peons. Not that peons are entirely useless. They’re good for certain tasks, just not the ones that require a name and title.
I was a peon once. I drank mocha latte coffee’s and read People magazine. I did my job like everyone else, ate like everyone else, fucked like everyone else. I was everyone else. For twenty years I was someone and everyone else. I was not even a name on a check. I was even married once. He was a good guy, but just not for me. Everything about our marriage was just mediocre. Easy to settle into, nothing exciting to keep me on my toes. The sex was okay, plain, like everything else in our marriage.
Then I met him. I don’t even know his name, but I like to think that he could be called something unusual. I’d call him K if that weren’t ripping The Castle off too much. Oh, hell. I’ll call him K.
K was interesting. Unusual. Suspenseful. I never knew what to expect from him, but at the same time, nothing came as a surprise. He could read people. The day we met was at the bus stop. I was heading to work, mocha latte coffee in hand, briefcase in the other. My hair was done up and my skirt was sexy. Yes, I slept my way to the top. It ended my marriage, but it was ending anyway, and I had success. The American dream, baby.
So, right, the bus stop. I’m sitting there, listening to my iPhone, when this guy taps me on the shoulders. It was K. He asked me what I was listening to. I told him. I don’t remember what it was exactly, but I know it was a top 40 song. Typical of me back then. He asked me why—
“Get the fuck off my sidewalk, you fallen angel!” screamed some old guy from his second floor window. I stopped, gazed up at his wrinkled face, and smiled slightly. Poor guy had no idea what he was talking about. I decided to educate him.
“Hey! You keep off my property, woman!” He said “woman” with a certain sting, a surreal, esoteric emphasis that implied his overt sexism. While he ranted, I opened his front door and waltzed right in.
The house was pleasantly decorated in a very old fashion, much like what you’d expect at a grandparents’ home. Lots of patterns, lots of gold and brown, lots of felt and that really gross feeling fabric on chairs and couches that collects dust and makes your skin crawl… that’s this house exactly. There were framed pictures all over the walls, kids, grandkids, siblings, etc. I briefly wondered if any of these people knew what a douche the man was. His grimace in every single picture on the walls indicated that they knew.