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When I was twenty-one. You were twenty-one when I was twenty-one and you had your birthday party in my bathroom. I was spinning my dick in a record player set on 33 + 45 RPMs and there was a levitating cow for horniness. They had us in a plate glass window, ravishing in turns for the quickness of a naught and I was sideways, fucking you sideways with a please. Then the lights went on and it was a strangler, strangler-office and work lights, they had a toolset, trained on the baffler and this baffler worked in shifts, he had no time off and worked constant, stopping short of a flush ate out with the whiskers of a bear. He had his face in your pussy, this was the bear, and he was eating you like trout. With new sentences fresh from the market. I had it on remix. Went through with the discount. And offered a triptogram to everyone who wanted one. Then the triptograms got together and they sang a little song. And the song went like this: "triptogram / triptogram / I had a castle in a waffle and Bernice loved you more than I / triptogram / triptogram" etcetera. The strangler had bad intentions, as stranglers do. His intention was to strangle the bear. And to strangle you. He would strangle first the bear with your legs, that was his mission there, then he had a slight little plan for your neck. It was something I wouldn't like to mention, naturally, and speaking about it in text makes me even nervouser. We had a backlight pocket on twitter with a maximal follow of one. The bear was only listed. His idea of twitter was something of a fieldmouse. Even the perception of a fieldmouse was greater than his. So Exeter played the triptogram in Ruffalo but eighties drank monkey-nut in bloodsore twanging.

You had your birthday party in my bathroom.

When I was twenty-one. You were eighty-seven and I was eighty-seven and we had the flight of the fantasies looking over us as a movie. It was called the Flight of the Fantasies and they had it on technochrome. We had the listing. I was reading it and you were taking me out loud. There were notes in the margin, and everything was in dry-erase marker except the periods, which were done in Drano for eavesdropping. Many, many cytoplasm died that day. They had a drum circle in Venice, and my software was pleasing. He had the Flight of Fantasies in memory and had rearranged it a little. They had a different way of speaking about us across the pond than we had of speaking about ourselves over here. Less coherent. With more Rs. Raring and retrofitted and raving mental ponies we had sucked them in the hospital when I had my records shipped they didn't worry about what made sense and yet it all rang together. In a pinch, I'd rather have a collection of you than some kind of weaving, but that's just me. Able-bodied men never saw such ponies, for ponies in Venice are rare. But you try singing the Flight of the Fantasies in E# and you see how it comes together. All in place? I'm doubting it. There have to be a few here's and there have to be a few there's which demand attentive aprons, delectable slices, and a modern introduction for you to fancy. Some introductions are as short as a paragraph. This one's going to take about eight-four pages. So settle in. For we have something of technologik and never tales for without telling. And I told you this was going to be written start to finish with no editing and I told you it would make absolutely no sense. But in this last I have lied, for have you ever tried telling a story that made absolutely no sense? Not even a baby can do it. But stories aren't our aim here. Typing is. We are tithering the brain, exploring leaps and lapses, following pure it out from the tendrils to the tendencies. What is the difference between a heffalump? And will you tell me again about the bathroom? Who turned twenty-one there? How did she do it? What sorts of changes were involved? What kind of sequences, which philosophers were present, how many of them could you fit into the bathroom all at once and what were their goddamn names? Was it only philosophers on the shower side or was it philosophers on the shower side and the toilet side? Did we have a premonition? Well yes she was twenty-one on the night of her twenty-first birthday, from the moment on out, and yes she needed to celebrate. Had she under-celebrated on her twentieth? What was served for dinner? When everything was deconstructed, what philosophers were left? Were they invisible? And so forth.

What happened when you turned twenty-one in my bathroom?

There was a bear. And he ate your pussy out like trout. Sharp as the edge of a paper, folded twice and inked on both halves from a cheque at the bank. Stop auto-correcting me Google. I didn't mean "her" I meant "your": he ate your pussy out like trout. What part of that is unclear? He ate 'her' pussy out like trout?: what sense would that mean? That would be the sentence if written by a writing student: simple: he ate her pussy out like trout. I haven't deconstructed myself yet. You haven't even deconstructed yourself yet! If I wrote 'he ate her pussy out like trout', as Google has suggested, that would be comprehensible, but a B+ sentence as compared to the A sentence 'And he ate your pussy out like trout.' That was the sentence as I had intended.

He ate your pussy out like trout.

What did it feel like? Have you ever been with the whiskers of a mole? Have you ever not-felt the bear whiskers running up and down you like a gnome? That's what it did not feel like to huffalump a banana. Writing a whole book about writing a book about writing a book about. Sarah has a fake identity. Her identity is a boy. I can relate! I can relate! When I write, I write in the identity of a girl. Sometimes. Sometimes I do. The trick is to stop thinking. There was have an unedited text of bear pussy and trout fingers, a joy to write and get rid of the middle man, editors and so forth, just the joy of a lamb or the foot of the lamb or some freaky thing with no backspace and very few em dashes and even fewer triple-tildes and lots and lots of inconsistencies in formatting but it could be worse I could be DFW telling you about the Year of the Adult Depend Undergarment and all that suchness. Suchness of a muchness motherfucker! Find your broken typewriters, get some old-school paper and stay the fuck off twitter for a few days! Write it out. Write it out about the bathroom after a proper introduction wiping brevity on the sleeves of nutbag over there. Forget those peer-reviewed literature sites and forget micropoetry and forget #litchat. #litchat is evil! #litchat can suck motherfucking donkey kong balls. #litchat is everything you don't want to be associated with as a writer! #litchat can suck my dick!! There, don't you feel better. What did #litchat ever do to you, FW—nothing, because you decided to take your em dashes and leave them to yourself. #litchat is everything that sucks. #litchat is that which you must avoid as a writer. #litchat is literally the devil. It is literally the devil. #litchat doesn't know what happened in the bathroom on her birthday. #litchat never will. #litchat doesn't understand the importance of a catalogue. #litchat, never, will. #litchat didn't turn twenty-one in my bathroom. She did. She did.

And who is she?

She's the one who turned twenty-one in my bathroom on her birthday which was held in my bathroom on her twenty-first birthday she turned twenty-one in my bathroom on that day of birth on which she turned twenty-one and inside my bathroom she turned and turned twenty-one inside my bathroom shower she turned and turned and turned and turned and turned.

But who was she?

She's the one who turned twenty-one in my bathroom.

And when did she do that?

On her birthday. I have never felt as free as when she turned twenty-one in my bathroom never felt as free as on her birthday never felt as free as when she turned and turned around me never felt as free as when she turned and when she turned she turned free and free and free and free. She turned free. When she turned, she was free. When she turned, she was free. When she turned, then she was free, that was when it was that she was free—when she turned.

When she was twenty-one she turned twenty-one in my bathroom. She came over. It was her birthday. She turned twenty-one. There was a birthday party. We invited a bunch of philosophers and we said 'fuck it'. We literally said, "Fuck it." And we took the scare-quotes off and we had ourselves a barbeque. No one clicks on links, you know that. They're all out there too busy trying to figure out how to be a star. But ain't none of us gonna be a star, we're too fucked-up for that. There's no room at the top. I mean there's no room at the top. It's just a couple of names and a forgotten history of a time when you could walk out your front door in the morning. Shit, most of us don't even have a front door anymore. Much less walk out of it. Shit. No one clicks on links. People are too busy not-reading everyone else's profile page; whole world of people perfecting their profile pages. How many social networks does it take to screw in a lightbulb? There's your answer. There's your answer. Let the bitch cook in the dark. No one clicks on links. Did you get your news feed yet? Did you get your hand-job? Is your celebrity profile in order? No? Better skip dinner? Eat at the plate-slop get it all nitty in the keyboard. There's no room for you. No one's going to care. You think you have what it takes? You think you can take this bet? How many do? How few? I count lines of code by the bushelful and I might've only met one other who can do it in this lifetime. Certain dangerous bet you take. Certain dangerous bet you have. Been given something, need for fame, and not-enough to be a mother to your kid. They've got to know. You've got to make the poetry. Make it. Make it. Make poetry. Make. Make articles. Make video. No one's watching. Your circle doesn't even care. They might have slipped us a chipmunk or something. But not even a canary in the woodstack—nothing. Not even a measly em dash. Fuckers. Let em know. Submit to their web form. Yeah. Now everybody pretend not to be drinking while let's all get drunk on twitter. Yeah. Feels better. Why do you capitalize punishment? Why do you capitalize your drawers? Did she really turn twenty-one in my bathroom or did she just say that was her birthday..

I think she just said that was her birthday.

Why would she do that?

She gets nervous on Tuesdays.

She sings the power electric. I'm sure that's how that goes.

You have references upon references upon ref—upon em hashes.

DFW would shit his fucking pants.

Would you quit referring to him that way?

What? DFW? That's what everyone says.

You mean all the cool kids.

What? That's what everyone says.

You don't know what's worse for you, #litchat or 'alt lit'.

What do you have against alt lit now?

Tell us again about the hashbrowns.

See, it's legal to write it, it's legal to publish it, but that don't matter because check this out—it's illegal to read it, so that's a right the cops in Amsterdam don't have.

Why did she turn twenty-one.

I'm tempted to edit this.

But don't. Don't. Just keep going. Why did she turn twenty-one.

She turned twenty-one in the shower on her birthday in my bathroom. She turned. There were a bunch of philosophers over by the toilet and a couple behind the shower curtain and she was perched above the toilet with a hand-held mirror cutting lines of coke and examining her vagina.

Why the coke.

Because it fits with my story.

But why the continued drug reference?

Do you know I'm in rehab now?

No, I didn't know that.

Again. Yeah. I went back out, as they say in 'the rooms'.

Does it bother you that everyone knows your history?

Let me tell you about the bathroom. We had philosophers in the corner.

Tell me your real age.

I'm thirty-four.

Why do you pretend to be a maze?

I'm thirty-four, so that puts me into my fifth novel now—

What took you back out?

You mean which drug? Let me tell you about the bathroom.

Yes, which drug.

I'm going to tell you now about the bathroom.

The bathroom was a square. It had a toilet, a sink, and a shower. There were Muppet-themed tissue boxes on the counter. One window, miniature blinds, that looked into the neighbor's house rather directly. There were a couple of em dashes set around here and there. Most of them had caps on, so you didn't poke yourself. DFW was there in retroframe, and we worshipped the picture he was wrote on. My love had placed our toothbrushes in a matching jar, and always liked to lay them out like they were 69ing, one toothbrush head to the other's tail, she was empty and I came into a chamber= there was a document of tethered gold and I had to remain upon it to achieve the chamber, to achieve the chamber is my goal, there were pigs and elephants and little mini French fry guys and most of all the leader who was a Juice Dog™ and they worship Juice Dog™ and lay down their newspapers at his feet and succumb to the Juice Dog™'s every wishes batted in an eyelash whisper of seven springs of ofness there was a Juice Dog™ in the beginning and there will be a Juice Dog™ in the beginning of every one of your sporting modifications from the bottom to the side, every inch, every Spotify, every particularity, they have us rolling in capital letters, marked from the eye to the zipper in proper nouns aching for a bloody cat. And I mean a bloody cat. A cat with blood. Strung up on the back porch in about 1952. Entrails gleaming. Left by the maid. Spotify. Trade names too dastardly to mention, that are only spoken in the trough-language between those who present, who present to each other gaming screenshots and a million sideways comments in disparate channels meant to passively launch rockets from commercial planning devices enraged by the production of Orange™, Orange™ Diggery, Orange™ Smitten-nufty, Orange™ SpaceFlight™. Night is different than naptime. Tea time is different than bedtime. NASA SpaceFlight™ on a blue-time Apple logo. I had meaning, once; I had it in my youth. But then I got rid of it for bigger things. We wrote poetry in spaceframe on side-lit infini-candy wishes. And there was a rhyme to the reason, a certain archaic sense-ness to the senselessness. And it was all more normal than we imagined. I met one on the internet. She was a witch of words, I had ducked a few of hers in the beginning, then we settled on long nightly conversations through email, and there was a tower burning. A tower of forgetting.

What happened in the bathroom?

There was a nightly philosopher gathering. It took place around a ruckus. They discussed the repetition of words. Each one took that there was more meaning to this or a certain set of words, and each one argued for the continued inclusion of that particular word-set. This was their argument. They sequenced words and settled on automated discussion-points that were generated by Google. Google had a vested interest in people continuing to sequence words, because Google had built tools for use in sequencing the words. That's why Google planned it. So these philosophers sat in their chairs and some of them drank secretly while replying and madly scourging to the inter-faction of an endless sequence of dappled cumming. When, within this cumming, one leaped ahead, there was a commotion that filled the room. Lights would envelop the cumming one. Break-neck speed was applied to the infini-candy. Licking ensued. They warped themselves in total color. Anything that sang, was exalted. And the book was invoked as a matter of reference, the book of phrases that we all keep between us, that changes every year and is made of mirrors and symmetry and the reference of this and this to that. I erased a sentence. I erased a sentence from the book and there was a horde of planning that went into the construction of even a mouse. One mouse on the page was worth a thousand in the head. There was a zoo of mice and then accidental tragedy, too in a fit of heralding and Steinway of Beckham popped just like that into the field of words. They had clothes made of war and vibrating listening devices to ward off the Juice Dog™ and to keep him present in the right—the just correct—proportions. Too much Juice Dog™ was evil; too little was mush. And they had strings and strung and strung and strung. And the book of phrases had no feeling. It only meant something to me.

But what happened in the bathroom?

And there was a house of a man who had written many books. His couch was clean white and he took off his headphones for a picture. He had a crush on the female-male one and there were children walking in the street. I had a child. I had a child. She wore a purple jacket and is chained to a fence. There is a train track. There are bodies on the tracks, placed there by murderers who cover what they do with a monkey keychain and headlight deer, the kind who, stopped in their ax, play piano on electric cords and Twizzlers™ came—no, I mean they really came, gushing and mush and these resided underneath the perfect white couch of the man who had written many books.

Wordcount of document. Double of a single. Triple of a quad. Hamstring of a bagel. Elephant of a Rathmore. Rathmore of a tube-gel. Instinct of a Greeley. Aching of a fieldmouse. Ratskin of a muffynfucker. Ape-shit of a dome. Eyebrow of a pickle. Grafting of a handle. Boardwalk of a slime-ster. Eggplant of a rutabega. Sunshine of a sandstorm. Bright light of a frappachino. Frappachino of a delight-y. Exeter of a Jersey. Dandy of a grime-stone. Grater of a cheese-mouse. Halfway of a Geraldine. Blimey of a time-stopper. Antique of terrific-ness. Ness of a Hess. Flooring of a mile. Bone-structure of a candycane. Earmark of a carrot. Strings of a flute. Keymask of a programmer. Professional of an amateur. Hair-lip of a dome-light. Archway of a whale. Firetruck of a dolphin. Dauphin of a ferris wheel. Yearning of a haughtiness. Grin of a rectum. Fleece of a hair tie. Instinct of a carefully. Jellypeel of LoopLighter™. Practice of tearfulness. Jacknife of RealSpace™. Fanciness of daguerreotype. Daguerreotype of daguerreotype. Daguerreotype of daguerreotype. Daguerreotype of daguerreotype.

Daguerreotype of daguerreotype.

Well, that did it. That annoyed the philosophers. They hadn't thought of that one. They had to put that in their pipes and smoke it. And they had many pipes, they had pipes buried in the sand for a thousand years they had so many pipes and such a variety of pipes that they smoked out of all sides of their faces and smoked such an array of substances of these pipes that the colors of the periodic table could not snuff them. They had symbols for everything they smoked, like Hi and Gh and Dwx and MkTyoIplsx. This last was reserved for late-night meetings. Refer back to MkTyoIplsx later, and have a good reason for doing so. Make this text make sense. Wrap it upon itself, give it something of a daguerreotype for the fitting. And sense a shoe. Sense it in the shop on Santa Monica Boulevard where you can truly get a shoe repair done. Leather shops. Old-time coffee-shops, diners, highways, beaches, little girls with little ponies on leashes, walking them in too much sun. Can I buy that pony from you? No, it's not for sale. Too much sun. Candy cane. Daguerreotype. Wrap it around like that. In your sleep. Daguerreotype of a daguerreotype. And what didn't I know of a man who had buried two girls in cinderblock sandstone under the concrete on his back porch? What wasn't there to know? He had spoken to them every day after school and led them to believe he was safe and he thought it was cool to see if he could fit his penis into a little girl why because he thought it was something he had lost he thought he was missing something he never had he was trying to become something he thought he could never be and maybe he couldn't.

Maybe he couldn't.

But that's no reason to bury two little girls in sandstone. And no reason for me to be cutesy about it. But maybe it was something he could become, and maybe he did. Maybe he needed to kill those two little girls and bury them in sandstone so we could all gasp about it and so that two sets of parents lives could be forever altered. But why is he in prison? With all the other people. They've locked them all away to watch television and play basketball and eat boxed lunches and make plans, make plans, make the most crafty plans about what to do on the flip side. I had a plan once. It was a box with a dark-ness cat and a hyphen and the two had to be flipped together with a hamburger. I added salt. There was density. Ground beef has become a professional. I edited my 'thank you' three times. And then delivered it international mail. Once a sentence was born; it was born inside The Matrix. It was three-hundred and seventeen letters long and it had the cadences of Nethercot wound up with apricot muddled in one pestle's worth of horse-sense. I keyed it soft on the machine and it came alive. One hundred twenty-seven syllables. Blasted me. Jacked in to arrays of stripes, s Sunkist™ trade name, smoking the MkTyoIplsx complex of unpronouncability. When I add in the numerology of the sentence it becomes too lascivious to talk about, in several humble opinions of glass. The MkTyoIplsx complex is comparable to crystal meth in terms of its dopamine effectiveness. Increased pre-association of words, quickened mitochondrial reflex. Very difficult to come down off of but well worth a ton of experiences. Madly. I tell you. Try MkTyoIplsx complex today. Jack just ate a fly. Good job, Jack. There is some value in being the first to do something. You have to be on your own edge. I'd recommend not-blogging for a while. Get your thoughts in order. Maybe slither a word-count or two. Hijack an apostrophe. Tether a madwoman. Retweet a couple of namesakes. Inundate twelve sidewinders. Amplify an indicative. Yearn for a few blister-knuckles of grace. Maybe countdown to a necklace. Jizz on a carpetbagger. Edit a poorly-worded slice of Brickman. Brickman a Catwoman. Noun yourself in for the duration.

What I considered the next day was nothing of my previous thought. It was I as a stranger, and my plans hadn't worked. There was a girl from high school I still longed for, and I wondered where she was from time to time, that random Facebook photo of her and her husband with their baby on a baby carrier on her back. Going hiking somewhere. I wonder if she ever thinks of me. I drank three glasses of water this morning, tall ones. And I have a receipt for my death, printed on both sides in black ink, old-style. A note on my whiteboard encouraging me to consider a liaison with another old friend, to do a spiritual fast. But I'm glad I didn't call her last night, because maybe I have moved on. Maybe she has too. But maybe I have, that's the important part, to me. Maybe I don't want to repeat what I did before. Maybe I'll find myself a new mountain to stand on, looming six-thousand words in the distance. Maybe I'll stop hiding my errands, chasing what I should not chase. I talk myself into dischord, not sure if I'm enjoying myself or I'm in hell. Something for everyone in a small package. I get your corny puns, I get your juvenile laughter, I get all that and I'm bored. Tweeting how you hate school, how you hate life, how you hate the every moment, how TV sucks, how your favorite actors suck, at least you need a project. Because we're all flying by. Flying by one year per year, pumping ourselves with water and coming in the other end, rushing from ass to mouth, degenerating ourselves with oxygen, nerve damage, psychic cabal. And I saw this once, saw it in a movie, with callous thumbs and an empty house. I knew it all before it started, I could tell that kernel. And they lacked imagination. And they saw it coming, saw their end when the sequels started getting out of hand. But my path stank of fresh dirt and minerals, something of patchouli and a dead cow, tipping a college walk to buy sunglasses in the middle of a classroom, I had two 'o's and triple 'l's and maybe a 'p'. ChapStick roaming. The girl sitting next to me under a tent hood while we listened to the lecture. Tickling her. She tickled back. We had flashlights in the groin. My navel was a peach. She called me once for oral sex. We did it in my dorm room, locked out the roommate while he sat watching Letterman on a neighbor's floor. I gagged when I ate her pussy, couldn't stand the taste of it, it was unclean, in retrospect. I've eaten plenty of pussy since then that didn't taste like that, that didn't make me gag. But it was a first experience with it and not a good one at that, but she made me come which was easy I just told her to keep going when she said she wanted to make me happy and I guess she did, with her little alcoholic self, I guess she did make me happy for that one moment and then later (another night) another girl said she couldn't fuck me, because she had a boyfriend back home, but she sucked my dick, too, and I came. It was lemon, and it was cherries, it was strawberries and vanilla, it was soap suds and rose water and oil and tart, tart tingling in a nice wide boat but they did coke in the bathroom of a Burger King in south Manhattan, also tasting and also smelling the very worst coke they could find in a porno outfit jerking off for like one second before coming out and hanging in an alley with that guy from Harlem who gave me his watch after one evening of friendship he thought we were close smoking crack never made me happy I always thought this is terrible but I can't stop but eventually you have to stop and you're left with the judgment of every straight-lace in the crayon box discussing brain damage and maybe it is but it works a whole lot better than yours ever will with no damage at all. That's what I want to say to people. It's not a matter of intelligence. Trying drugs doesn't make you stupid. And yet, I want to be done with all that, and I also want to be done with being done with it all, not to oppose, but to deflect and find some useful position. I think it's possible. I don't think it's easy. But blond hair and stubby thumbs might make it easier for some. I had a polo with a white sweater standing in front of a house from when I was a child. Then I turned the page. And I had a striped shirt and stood with my sister, who was shorter than me, and had this nose-smile that is the purest joy that I can imagine, just playing around, like children do. Before we figure out the sky isn't blue, that it's really all black there in space and we're hurling through the universe and we don't know why. I liked it better when the sky was blue. It kept us focused on the relevant. And what is a poem? What is a poem? I found it in my back pocket, with glue. I found it with my keys. I found it on the LCD of my small camera, on some website back in the day where I posted pictures from the road, pictures of dinosaurs and of my beard and there was never a short introduction there was only rambling and grace. And the strings came in. And they played with the drum-bass and the warped industrial pinnings and I speed-dialed you with this cheap-ass phone but you were still there, still talking before your flight to Japan and you found your cat but then she peed all over everything as cats are wont to do. Did you go to Japan? Did you come back? I'll never know. I had the first choice in my hand and I spent it, didn't wait to see what would be available next, and that was the right way to do it, to go for the small streets in New York City that seem smaller and smaller each time you go. That Kinko's on Park Avenue. The fire trucks there. The insane lack of parking. But I think you did go to Japan, and I think you did come back. I think you bought yourself some earrings, which you said you wouldn't do because your ears are lopsided but me and your other sister had an agreement about your ears being just fine. We thought there were worse ears. And I was chasing it, chasing that perfect social moment, perfect writing moment, and willing to do anything to find it. Willing to break my own rules. What happened in the bathroom? I'll tell you.

Two took a shower. They took it in the hottest water possible. One was a girl. One was a boy. They put their girl and boy parts together. It was steaming from below the door into the living room of a small apartment with a bay window and the tiniest kitchen you've ever seen. When they showered, they bathed like porpoises, squealing and splashing in the shower-water in the same fashion as a large puma would splash in a bath. Their love was a tiger; all their love together was a single tiger, with its teeth, and its muscle, and its tail. But their love was endangered, and they clung to it with human claws, ripping a bit at the other's flesh. My friend was dead. He died of cancer. They told each other about all their dead friends and clung to each other in the shower, they needed each other to be alive, for just a little longer. But he died in hospice, which I never really understood, and wasn't cremated, but went into the cemetery, in the newer section with the newer grass. I only heard this I never went. I lived in a different city at the time of his funeral and couldn't afford the plane ticket. Or maybe I really didn't want to go, that's a possibility that I allow myself to think of in private. Maybe we were done, and maybe I didn't want to stand on his grave and wail with everyone we knew. I wanted to move on, but we clung together and re-wrote our arms as octopus and there was only one in the shower, as we needed to be the same, needed to come into ourselves as one, needed to be one packing, needed to have one name. The girl's hair played into the boy's face and their phrasing was every which way that it needed to be. He phrased from time to time in her ear and she phrased back with her cooing and cumming and they put each other to it, making their bodies do this thing that comes pre-built-in that makes us happy. They were one.

I told you what happened in the bathroom.

I told you what happened in the bathroom now leave me alone.

She turned twenty-one on her birthday in my bathroom.

She was twenty-one.

She had her birthday.

She was in my bathroom.

They were one like a tiger, like an octopus, and they splashed like a large puma would splash in a bath.

Now you have the Cliff Notes of what to happen in the bathroom.

I was done having affairs with high school girlfriends. I had done it a couple times and was done. There had been a way to do it and a way not to. Was I random enough? Did I make enough sense? Would this project be a failure? What would it mean if it were a success? How did she feel on my dick? That was the question we were trying to answer. It's such a simple question. Did she lose it in the bathroom at 1470 with two girls? Would she be making out there, pathologically fucking and ruining my friend's life? We wrote ourselves into a cave, and there were tendrils which would never match up with other tendrils. You could go this way and never end up back where you started. A large text. With a small body. Plenty of puns. Corny ones. Some construction rules. Perhaps a few guidelines on page constriction in a ham sandwich. The Four Horseman. I turn the page. I'm still in a stripe shirt but this time I have peanut butter on my face. I turn the page. It's a picture that's not even of me, it's my sister and some other kid, my mother just included this picture because she thought it was me, but it wasn't. Turn the page.

I couldn't understand the project. And I didn't need to. I needed to do the project. Understanding would come from the outside. I had a small email collaboration to undertake, and needed to judgment or insight, just action and a small amount of reading. Written in C

I edited a sentence. I failed. I changed an 'and' to an 'an'. Flog me.

We'll leave in the rest of the typos to make up for it.

And a bank teller.

A bank teller in central Pennsylvania.

Scratching my balls.

A letter went out. It went out asking a question. Five seats. In a balcony. A marathon of food. Intake of juice. The wrenching of a philosophy. One who struggled. Had one foot in the door of the past. And had a secret he carried under his hat. Warm ears, lined with fur. Rode it on his bike through recycling. Ape-shit. Woke up in a nightmare. Licking the bottles. There was no way out. Just a long climb uphill that led to nowhere. Re-interpreting the dreams. And a dry desert. Cracked parking lot. There was no one there, no one there to listen, no one there to talk, it was empty, just lines painted on asphalt and a south side of town no one wanted to go to, it was all poor Mexicans and crystal meth, just one dying after another in cheap peer-led therapies I forgot my bike lock I left my bike up against the rack with no lock I wore my helmet into the grocery store the check-out girl noticed it we thought each other were cute and then went our separate ways. I rode my bike home, through Mexicans and crystal meth and finally got home to the driveway. You could hardly breathe. Tiny substances. A marathon of food. I tried it once and it worked so I tried it again. Invention in a zippertruck. Found out how to do it with pedals twice fast and a musical interlude. You had to have regular inputs of soul, from a documentary movie to a train whistle to a little marimba to help you through it. And we made it through the neighborhood. And we had to be cruel to invent it. It needed entire countries zipped up and put away in a satchel, the side-carrier of a writer on his way to a reading, smoking cigarettes he knew he didn't need. I tell the future. Portaged it, wanked it in sugar and thyme and a glass trinket for your keychain. Might have drowned myself. Lost it. Muddled myself and this idea and that idea laid me over. Impossible. That's what I said. She said different. It was just a map of synapses, ready to travel over, perhaps on a bicycle through crystal meth. And they read the newspaper. Had a pipe on the ballot. I was scenery in my mouth and took me in a wave of pleasure freaking my eyes pinned open like movietone. Found a wave of rhythm, from pedal to stone, and I had that back light replaced with triple-A batteries (three of them) and set to stun the blinking. Digit-carrier. Tilde. Caret. Six. Me. Through. A container. Sealed. Juice. Buried. A word. Particle. Bloodtooth. Ax man. Circuitry. Invincible. A mango. Japanese. Spoken both languages. Read me both in Morse. I drew on the eraser with marker. The eraser was covered in marker. Could it still erase marker? The eraser was covered in marker. Daguerreotype of a daguerreotype. Print from a perfect print. Original of an original. This is the original. This is the original. This is the original. Three times. That was the original. Which one? That is the point. That is the point. That is the motherfuckin' point. Angels wisped back, volume low. Tightback. Key combination. Keyboard combination. Piano combination. Chord. The furry hat. The Four Agreements. A cell phone. A photographic notebook. My digital drive. My online drive. My files. My folders. My email account. Everything online. The blog. The enterprise. The subsections. The franchise. The receptionist at my mental health place is as crazy as the clients. The peer counsellors are hardly trained. It's all a funnel for tax dollars, public funding hardly helping those of us poor enough to be crazy. With sevens. And a five. You had a monkey. Her name was Grace. Her middle name was Gladys. Her last name is Gibbons. And we ate vegan grain sausages and stained our fingers with the casing which was plastic. Grace Gladys Gibbons sang a prayer. And everyone got counselling, from the top on down. And you lost your high-powered job, which is the only way to come human. The lucky ones do it. And it is only luck, because no one wants to lose their high-powered job. Almost no one. You brought along your iPhone and instead of us talking you played Angry Birds the whole time. You had to play a game with the form! You had to! Well: I did. It was meanless not to, to let it sit. And trips to India. You can ride a bicycle there too, I've heard. Unemployed. Grace Gibbons was in my bathroom. Grace Gibbons wrote #micropoetry on her coffee table keyboard and smoked. Grace Gibbons was there. Grace Gibbons understood me. Grace Gibbons had multinational fashion sense. Grace Gibbons doesn't have a problem with gluten. Grace Gibbons was never on the cover of Time Magazine. Grace Gibbons had more class than that. Grace Gibbons would know what to do. Grace Gibbons, Grace Gibbons, Grace Gibbons. And the whole time forgetting that Grace Gibbons was 'just' a monkey. But that made no sense so I forgot it instantly. Grace Gibbons would have come to my birthday party. Grace Gibbons would have known what to wear. Printed on the side of my headphones it said CHINA Dygit11. As if that explained everything. And in my backpack is a hand, it's been severed neatly at the wrist and cupped with a water bubble to preserve freshness. I type with one finger. Sometimes two. Grace Gibbons would have known. Grace Gibbons would have remembered her name. Grace Gibbons is an asshole. Grace Gibbons knew how to ride a bicycle. And from the worst possible soil came the best possible plant—does that mean to keep putting down the worst possible soil? Grace Gibbons would know. The hand represents stolen—something stolen, a stolen idea, a stolen moment perhaps. The fact that it's severed represents stolenness, again, and the fact that it's in a backpack means it's a secret I'm keeping from someone. I googled all that. Did I spell Google with a capital G earlier? I think it's emergent. Lowercase g as a verb, uppercase G if it's a company name. They lost their trademark. Lego. Tissue. Kleenex. You know what I mean. Of course you do. I knew it. I knew your hipster twitter photograph meant more than expected, meant you had skill and knowledge and it was more than just knowing how to pick out a tshirt. Overvision. Viewing the screen and the keyboard at the same time. That's all to look at, all there is anymore. You might have seen an elephant. You might have seen a rose. You might have seen Grace Gibbons dressed up in her underwear. That's the circus. I saw Grace Gibbons dressed up in her underwear. Grace Gibbons is a way of life. Grace Gibbons has the golden ticket. Grace Gibbons gnaws her way through problems. Grace Gibbons owns a pair of padded handcuffs. We found the key. But you had a hipster eyecon in my eyelash and I can never unstick you. There's a copy shop at that train station. Ditmars, I believe, in Astoria. Across the street is a place that buys used PlayStations. That copy shop sells orange juice and you can use the computers for free. Grace Gibbons works there. Grace Gibbons has a fake ID. Grace Gibbons just moved to Portland. Grace Gibbons has a degree. So plant the worst dirt, that's the way to do it. Plants grow anyway. That's their thing. They'd grow on concrete if you'd let them. The seed is everything, the dirt is nothing. Grace Gibbons has a degree in biology. Grace Gibbons has a furry hat. Grace Gibbons has a fuzzy hat. Grace Gibbons has a funny name. Grace Gibbons has a strap tied to her face that lets the crumbs in. They tied it in space and she hasn't let it out since. A door was opened. A family went to Hawaii. They had never been before. And now they play on the rope swing on the side of the house and make a chicken run. Grace Gibbons likes chicken. I had unopened mail. She promised to send a package but I think she was just sussing out my new address. Stalker. Anti-stalker. To call the police. A movement. Afraid of it being over. Afraid to take another step. Afraid we're heading for a cliff. Cliff of completeness. Every brick put in place and someday it'll be over, I don't want to work anymore, never wanted to work on it and seeking to not be here (chemically) actually does work while it's working and actually doesn't work while it's not. Grace Gibbons tried it, once. She knows how good it is. Severed hand in a bookbag. Grace Gibbons carries the bag, she sashes up to a mailbox, opens the door, drops the bag in. Grace Gibbons helped me dispose of my dream symbol. What will I do with the rest of my day? What will I do when it's done? I will be empty, will lack, will need, will want something to do. I wish I could be involved all the time, wish energy was infinite, that there would never be a break, that Grace Gibbons was always on duty. Could eat grain sausages and tear the heads of beetles and take away your love constantly, with Grace Gibbons there like a drill sergeant, making us. Making us. Making us. Organize our files. Grace Gibbons has a dongle. They should make email more effective. And do the redesign. Product effectiveness. Grace Gibbons is a PM. And a CEO and an MBA. Grace Gibbons does it all. I wish I'd never heard of Grace Gibbons. She sang a song to me when I was in middle school, I don't recall the words, but it was one of those dirty sexual songs that children sing in little children-culture and she sang it to me and it taught me a few things, that I learned in Georgia font in twelve point knowledge. Like the Zen Buddhists. They were singing songs, too. And Elmo was there, doing his little dance. And Tori Amos sang along with god and there was only one way forward. It had been laid out, time in turning, pebble by pebble by stone. You took one step. It moved you. Ending. You placed a word. Grace Gibbons came in on the horns. Then Confucius dolloped an aphorism and we all grew fat on philosophy. I had something in my eye; I think it was Grace Gibbons. And it really did come from the worst dirt. I was floored to see how the seeds grow. But I wasn't much of a gardener, clearly. What did I know? I know you think it's time for me to say something else about Grace Gibbons—right there—but it's not time for that. It's time we put Grace Gladys Gibbons to rest, and warded ourselves away for the present. For it is ending. The dome will slide back and there will be a constellation inside. Grace Gladys Gibbons will be singing you a song about the dirty little things that young boys and girls want to do to each other, lifting dresses and sticking fingers in here and touching up there. And Grace Gladys Gibbons will have no grace, no patience. Grace Gladys Gibbons will punish us, uselessly, microphone will be a keg stand, GGG's name will be truncated on the way to the pipeline, associations will be multiplied, and the technique will be buried under years and years of sand. A central Pennsylvania bank teller will scratch my balls. She'll turn twenty-one in my bathroom. Grace Gladys Gibbons will pony us all; she will preside (over it). And GGG will be your name, Dear Reader, when you go to sleep at night. The fairytales will tell themselves to Grace Gladys Gibbons, whatever your name used to be. From now on (for the rest of the day) I dub thee Grace Gladys Gibbons, to have and to hold, to be and to remember, to sink and to swim, you are now G, G, G.

I ate my lunch and had a pimple on my nut. There were women walking in and walking out of this locked door and I had been given the key but I set it beside me on the carpet and just walked them go in and out, in and out. Some were going to the bathroom. Some were going home. I wanted to fuck several of them, most of all this Norwegian-looking girl with cut-offs—cut-off pants. She looked like she would want to drop her shorts on the floor and lift her legs high and we would talk about it while we did it. She was option number three. Options number one and two I'd scarcely want to talk about. Heavens, not in a gypsy. Options number four through ten would be the subject of my dissertation. But option number three looked like she would want it nasty-style, after a little lick would be like 'I want this inside me' and then it would be on from behind. I didn't like to think of this one's panties, I don't know why. Usually I'd love to think of them. We would fuck in observation chambers and people would do 'The Strange Situation' experiment on us, but fucking. Everything would videotape. Mike Ewning would do the observation, and he'd burn a DVD of the video right off, just during the production. It would be a little play, with two or three actors and no director just fucking. And w'd have sed and awk and we'd be piping things to more. Mike Ewning would meet Gladys and Gladys would go ape-shit on Mike Ewning, gorrilla-ing him like a chimpanzee will do. Do you really know how to spell chimpanzee, when it comes right down to it? Do you really use that word all that often? Can you eat hamburgers in retrograde? What about the moon?

You might poke me on my nut but I had a pimple on my nut.

And what about the interview? Mike Ewning would conduct it. After all the video, and all the spectacle about that one Norwegian liking to take it all up the butt, we'd have ourselves a proper interview. Mixed with languages from both sides of the pond. I'd have Oprah. You'd have Gladys Glass. We'd feed them guppies and see which one ran home first. I ate a fish once with my lunch meal. Ticket. Ate a glorious, glorious fysh. And they had to change the music or fucking would get boring, as it'll tend to do with Norwegians. I never knew how to spell Chimpanzee, thought I had it right but every gibbon in the place was laughing with a red butt. The Norwegian had a name, her name was Camilla, she had a dark red spot between the legs known as her pussy. Viewed from a distance you'd see nothing but a red blur, the same as you would view a gentleman's genitals from a distance, just a faintly red blur where it was sticking in or sticking out. Camilla spanked her pussy when in private, she liked to lick it wet and rub it around in a circle-like. Mike Ewning would never approve. Grace Gibbons would never understand, she'd be off trading favors for food. But we recorded it, and that made it okay. There were two different spellings for chimpanzee, one for each side of the pond, and a marker for greatness about one yard high (on the other side it was a meter) which measured stacks of words and published a report about which ones were the baddest. In a Michael-Jackson sense. Michael Jackson is an adjective. He had a big bad way with itty-bitty words. Camilla never liked his music. One might bounce oneself into oblivion. They all got together and had a name party. All the names were in attendance. Alice was there and Lindsay was there and Cher and Prince. Michael Jackson continued to be an adjective. Mike Ewning continued taping. Grace Gladys Gibbons ate from a bowl of jellybeans that had been passed down for seven generations. All the blacks were removed. There were reds, there were pinks, there were puke-covered. Jelly-Belly hell. They had lacked seedlings and nothing meant anything in retrograde. Mike Ewning snapped a picture. The Ugly Experiment continued playing. Someone was feeling out words in the dark, and couldn't stop for the alarm. A Norwegian was cut in half right down the middle from pussy lip to the brain, parted her hair on the science table and stacked associations so high there was no ceiling. Not anymore. Free world. A lack of constraint. Open bananas. He didn't make eye contact. He never did. I saw it as a lack of character thing, but maybe he was trying to keep something from me. They had a habit of not-saying hi to each other, too, which I thought was low class. It made me think we were all mixing together when we shouldn't have, and I wished I had another house. So I knitted my truth into the wall, sewed my color in with the bricks and tiny hallucinations began to crop up from the ether. They were doing something really exciting. There was a buzz, with about seven of them, maybe four. But something was happening, everyone who saw it agreed. There was a lyric mixture from the nickel down to the cat, too obtuse, they'll never get that. There was a lyric mixture from candy to a clown. Maybe with the combined. Combine your forces. I didn't say she was a perfect Norwegian I said she was a Norwegian. But she did like it in the butt. Mike Ewning press play. Grace Gibbons eat your monkey. Someone wrote one of the other poets in for a pass. Said he was a tune. He sat bleakly on a white couch and paraded a printing press before a sea urchin and he said, 'Sea urchin: what do you think of that?' The sea urchin responded in double quotes: "I don't." You show a press to an urchin, you see how far that gets you. Right into the carnival. When they cut the Norwegian in half it only doubled her love of fucking. On the copy machine. In the hallway. Right near the water fountain by the bathroom. In the bed, of course. When she got in the bed she got really crazy. It was like the structure undergirded her. Press save. She fucked in double quotes. But when she got fucked, she got fucked in single, it was like she had gotten shy or something. Shy pervert. She held me to the single-quotes thing, too, she'd say: 'Keep fucking me but do it in single quotes.' And I'd try giving her some double-quote action. She was firm: 'Give it to me singly.' I'd be like: "You stupid Norwegian whore I need to give it to you twice-nasty." She'd say: 'Calmly fuck my red-button kitsch-kabob in retrograde.' Then I'd give her single-quote action. We spelled each other's names. Her tattoo was a hex code for 'give it to me raw'. It was an extended character set. The extra characters said: 'drop these crop-pants, mash my cunt and show me what a Yankee boy can do.' All in single quotes. When she did it she would scream. Not hold it in. I mean she'd scream at the top of her lungs, like a child. You might imagine her beating her breasts; it was a scream like that. I wasn't afraid the neighbors would hear—I was afraid of the police. It was like she was shitting out a pimple and so satisfying. It's so satisfying to have that pimple out of there. She needed sex like that, and I have to say, when I was around her, I did too. Once I looked at her it wouldn't leave the brain. I'd fantasize about every woman I saw until she'd let me in. She wasn't the only one I wanted. I wanted everyone. That's how she made me love. She made me want to fuck everyone. Then she'd hold my cock in her hands and start to put it inside her, and she'd let me do it and put her hands on my ass.. Then it was back on the washing machine and her screaming. And I fucked her. I used her as my masturbation rag doll, as someone once said to me. She was a rag. Flesh-rag. But I was influenced by another poet, and I lost my voice. Tried to vocalize, she held the small of my back. And her screaming lavishly, just letting it all out, and I was hoarse, cripple, and I could only cum quietly and it reduced my size because I wanted to Yawp! So Camilla spanked my monkey and squeezed inside her body and she grabbed my balls where she had been sucking and I started cock-bouncing her, banging inside her hole and then my balls were slapping her. 'Camilla,' I said in single quotes, 'You're so good.' And she knew. She knew how good she was and she held the back of my neck and I was fucking her good now I could feel my Yawp! returning. I self-published. Then we both came. We had been publicising randomly-misspelled words in a junket. Britney was there. Barack. Madonna had a bit part. Bobby Fischer ate brick-lightning. Mozart came in on the strings. Grace Gladys Gibbons was our conductor. She had a monkey-bench and when she spoke she spoke in triple quotes she didn't care who she was talking to. '''We all go down in America,''' Gibbons sang, '''We all go down tonight.''' It was like a TV show. They had a test audience. They had us, the cast. And they had Camilla, split down the middle from head to ass, organs bleeding and pumping and flexing right there in the middle. We didn't fuck her when she was like that. We would have had to split our penis in two, and fuck one side of her with one penis and fuck the other side of her with the other penis, and Grace Gladys Gibbons would never approve. When she was like that she didn't go to the bathroom because it would all be too squishy and biological and I know you wish she did but this is my poem. Grace Gladys Gibbons locked us out of the bathroom. Camilla had the key. We went in, found the last stall in the row, and Camilla unzipped her jeans. She felt herself and had her other hand on my cock, so what do you expect? I did her. I did her Norwegian-style with all the nastiness that Camilla could ever invent. She had her hand on that red spot of a pussy and was cumming before we ever got started she's volcanic like that. Grace Gladys Gibbons stood watch at the door and when someone came by the monkey shook her head with gravity, like: '''There's no way you're going in there.''' Camilla started screaming. She made me do it in single quotes. She always makes me do it in single quotes. And I don't care. And you were introducing me to it and I was introducing you to it and you had a little business. It was boxing up pastries and the moniker you had chosen for this job was 'Pastry-matic' (lovers). There was a bomb under the chair. Reaganomics had an aneurysm. I had gas but you couldn't hear it through the internet. Smells were lacking. Once a rhythm was found, a rhythm fell in place. We showed we cared. I read your poem about the one dog fucking the other dog and reposted it but all I really wanted was Magnavox. I already repeated myself once in this piece: that was about who would and would not approve of someone else. I used that phrase twice. I will aim not to do it again. Dogs have Heathcliff but form was necessary. We spited. And spited out of spite. Dorothy-matic gas grabbers addressed the entire contents of my desk to Madagascar and there was one more country name we wouldn't be able to use. I hated the cum-car. Magna car loudly. Got myself all blanked out; it only took a hundred pages. Didn't care much for the lit-mags. Had a flashlight for italics. Don't consider that repetition. Note to self. I hate it when people tweet lyrics without saying what they are but it's a basic problem of context that twitter itself encourages with the 140-character limit. I think they should have chosen 256 characters as their limit. And left off the subordinate phrases. I don't always use the phrase 'strung out' literally. My destiny is a band you never heard of. I was plugged into the best; I arranged that myself. Knew you couldn't do it all on your own. Surrounded myself with people to learn from. Always made sure that everything they knew, I knew. It was fun for everyone. We wrote reviews in a link. Pressed the button. Got all warmed-out on bruschetta and lunchbox. You know the moment. You know the moment when it turns on. You could be sitting at your desk, thinking, 'this is the same semicolon I used last time' when it snaps in: you got in the groove, your words are coming now, moppet. You used your moons on me. I dreamt of a double-sided pinball machine there were holes on both sides and you tried to launch your ball through the other fellow's hole my opponent was this kid from high school he stuffed a flank steak in my hole and we both congratulated him on what a genius move that was. None of it mattered—it was all ego! The only thing that mattered about a writer is that they write. We got the rest all mixed up and it became something beyond a reader and a writer my ex girlfriend says she hates movies about movie makers and by that same token she probably hates writing about writers but she just hates anyway. I had trouble being in love with her because of that. I used to pull her prime ponytails like a rider and say "Love me!" but she would scrape her hoof in the muck and frown all the way from her bit to her girdle. And there were those of us who followed an old-fashioned groove, depending on the words we'd choose. Every ten years or so the language would entirely change, and it was tough to cross one of those boundaries, you'd have to be on this side or the other, depending on your youth. Aging, cased in grippe, but you'd still get a ride or two from a useless expression. I had need for a glass of wine after I saw your drinking on television. They switched the plan. It was all dubstep now. And My Little Pony. I couldn't act my part. You had to defer to some of the little shits. And be yourself. It strikes me that nonsense has no emotion. Not in a grand sense, since nonsense has no grand sense. Someone is calling me from (503) 288-8066 but I'm not going to pick it up. I'm writing. There have to be priorities. I'd rather my star wander from Jerusalem than answer the phone while I'm writing. Who do I look like? What do you think this is? Two ponies, playing on a rope, one hits her head and the other gets sick. The sick one coughs without covering her mouth. Emotion might be a philosophy. Growing up in my bathroom. References breed sequence, sequence breeds architecture, architecture is subsumed with meaning. Nonsense denies tense, tense gives way to archfiend, playfulness denies death, nothing comes through it but we all have fun until we die. Why, when one person does something, does it 'work,' while, when another person does it, it doesn't work? Because there are two distinct 'it's in that last sentence. They're not really doing the same thing. So the question is at fault. Undermined. Solo. Glace. Change the mood. I almost answered a tweet. What was I thinking? I almost forgot who I am. And bring me the ego, it is delightful. Bring me the ego, she delights. It is deliciousness. I needed spellcheck for that one. Chimpanzee. Can you keep it all in your head at the same time? Moment a moment? Some people are working for a living. I'm counting commas. You needed hallucinogens to get a right perspective on what was what, in the world of creation. You could make it and not even know it; not even know what you had made. You had to see if from the drenches. Symbol and snare. Correct. Acknowledged. Commitment to daguerreotypes. Slammy. Eruption of ratchet-kat. My enem.y My mother sang a lullaby of Schwinn Custom Fixie $450. You tried another's form. It didn't work out. You said "FUCK POETRY" and didn't write anymore. That's what we all did; you had to write in your own form. I found mine on a hatrack at the Second Time Around, even though the syllables didn't quite work out on that one. I am narrating a narration: I am narrating, and while I am narrating, I am narrating my narration. That is what you are reading, among other things. A sideways space shuttle launch. What if you tried to do the same thing twice? It would work out like before: there are two 'it's. You can never do the same thing twice. It's two things. That's a lesson for my hangnail, something for it to get sweet, and not worry if your style wanders. It will. It will wander. It wonts to wander. It wanders to wane. It waited with me in the emergency room lobby while I was having kidney stones. It let me sleep with its wife. It almost took its life. It knew all this—and more—with a few years. And that was the one time I lost my dignity, even though by 'sleep together' I really mean we just sleep together, still, I should have slept at somewhere else, should have slept with myself in the hills if necessary, kept it all together on the stick. Game show nite-nite. Prizes dollied waay on from the back-broke bartender fired for that drink we shared. I don't know why I'm so scared of fucking women. I think I don't want to do it wrong. Not the fucking exactly. But the being-with. To me it's all alone all the time. Never the illusion. She just wants to fuck and pretend it never happened. I want to have it really happen. I want to really-feel. There's only one in a blue moon to do that with. Most people they're just trying you to comment on their fiction. Wanting to have the third-rate conversation. The '50s. I wanted to really make—until the end of the night. When the wedding dancers had gone home and everyone had stopped drinking and that spinning ballerina on top of the cake had run out of spin. Then we could make. Make. No more scary fucking. And forget my face tomorrow. We could make. Found a hair-dart something special in the nice. Wont a generation. Iced it. Felt your lace ruffle under the hair. Made you a velveteen rabbit. Wore you. Out of this whole place with a ticket. You were the whole song to a tune I had been humming. Humming since I was little. Took you on an airplane. We made it away from the city. Didn't even pack our bags. Re-planed in Boston, ate pizza by the neon, never even held hands we just tapped a foot into mine and I knew you from then on. Stole the tshirt. Listened, one to a headphone. She was singing. Then we got back on the plane and we were in DC by Monday, back at school. You and your plane trips. You flew me out of my parents'. Held my handle. And put my song on repeat. Listened to me, all the way home. I think I missed your call this weekend. I think that was you.

You couldn't quietly make anything the way you were trying. You had to quietly make things by really forgetting whatever the fuck they were saying on twitter and what they weren't saying about you on tumblr. You had to get a little less hip and just make motherfucking shit. Only one or two got it at any given moment. They passed it around like a torch. For this moment it was Sean R. Next moment it would be P. French. They'd waltz it. Mark it in urine and gasoline, then throw the match. I was only in it for like a second, then I had to get out of there, because my tires were tired and it no longer suits me. I watch from the box. Pretending me. The story to your face was not the story seen. You had no control over it. It's like the metaphor of parenting. Your model is parenting. Your primary object is the object of parent. You spend your time arguing about the right way to parent and the wrong way to, about whether the schoolteacher or the parent knows best, about when the child teaches you and when you teach the child. But it's all too specific. Don't argue about how to parent; think about the fact that you're in a parenting paradigm, and that as such all you can think about is parents, when there are other objects and other paradigms to use. What is the parent is not your primary object? What if that's not an important concept in this new way of thinking? It was like that with fame. We tried to put a hand on it, here and there, but it was like parenting, and not-parenting. It wasn't the way to think at all. I think that says it.

There was no way to think about it.

There was only glass.

She had it in a muffyn.

She ran that muffyn far down the road.

Never look forward or back—neither one is there.

Seminole of a Seminole.

Refrain of a refrain.

Caption of a caption.

Earthquake of a badger.

Porcupine of an earthquake.

Neverwhere of a porcupine.

All-staff of a neverwhere.

Meeting-tile of an alcoholic.


Freedom of words.



Penny Goring. Sian S. Rathore. I am obsessed with poets. Do they have to be female? No, but it helps. Helps to have a British accent, helps with readings. Helps to have a backspace and never to use it. Did I read a bunch of bad poetry and follow those poets, too? Of course I did. I did it for the company. I was that in need. Maybe it wore off after a while and maybe I stayed need with a few words to spare. Maybe the document was writing me. Maybe I was the story. Maybe typing goes the other way. Maybe it's writing into my brain, instead of out of it! Maybe I'm the audience. Maybe I should stop. Maybe I should stop listening to Portishead—they'll ruin me. Maybe I should stop visualizing punctuation as a way to figure out which one to use. ,.;—: I forget. What I do is I visualize the possible sentence—like I'm reading it—and I try on various punctuations. Or they jump out at me. Then I jump in them and strangle them. I want you to know that by and large my word choice in this piece is not determined by typographical error. For instance, 'jump in them'—that was intentional. It sounds better than 'jump on'. When I try on poets it's a lot less random. I like the contradiction, mid-sentence, of your navel and your face. I knew I could do this from the beginning. I even knew that you would care. I knew I'd be using a lot of self-adhesive sandpaper I just didn't know how many chiggets we were gonna need. I still have twitter followers so I know I'm doing something wrong. I forgot to mention Grace Gladys Gibbons; forgive me. I have a tattoo with 'Grace Gladys Gibbons' on my ass—we have it together. I interviewed Paulie Elliott. I interviewed Paulie Elliott. I am about as real as her girlfriend's orgasms. I interviewed Paulie Elliott. I closed my browser window because it was all trash. I thought of Kirsten Dunst and a pity fuck came to mind. What it might be like to own a sexuality who could pity another's. Something from the movie. Not that Kirsten Dunst would do that. And a glass of water. Invented a project. Of pity fucks and gibbons. Self-reference. Just like rappers. Rapping about rapping. Rapping about what it's like to be a rich rapper. They say the Cockney accent is going away, in favor of everyone talking like Ali G. I wonder what Don Miguel Ruiz would say about that. Something wise, I'm sure. Something Toltec. We need more Toltec pity fucks. Toltecs pity-fucking white women in retrograde. Toltecs pity-fucking wisdom rabbits on the backs of paddles. Splintered paddle pity fucks without the hyphen. Pity-fuck the turntable from chapter 1. Pity-fuck a Juice Dog. That Juice Dog might fuck-pity you. Pity-fuck Grace Gibbons. She'd prob'ly kick your ass. Pity-fuck a nasty uninvested pity-fuck from chapter 2. Rhyme-fuck a pity-party. Pity-fuck a sixteen. Pity-fuck a twenty-one. Pity-fuck a fan. She just wanted to slip between the pages and she liked you so much that you considered her never. You'd never consider her. So yes, pity fucks ran both directions. And you would know you could experience it. Pity-fucking a book fan in email photographs. You sent her a picture of a dove. She sent you a picture of a beer bottle broke off inside her vag. She told you not to show it to anyone and now you wrote it inside your book. But you didn't show it to anyone. And that was never a pity-fuck, it was just a good example of a photograph of a beer bottle broke off inside a woman's cunt. Or maybe it was a pity-fuck after all. Pity-fuck the Cockney accent. Pity-fuck trip-hop. Pity-fuck the cosmos. Pity-fuck the third association. Pity-fucking surrealist pity fuckers, I hated them. They thought they had it all wrapped up in a blackboard. Whiteboard. I saw that movie too. It isn't a reference to a movie. It's a reference to a reference to a reference. And now you've got all these super-academic fuckers poring over a text. Instead of the zippy-kids who deserve it. Find the overlap. Find the overlap, Matthew. 12600. Find it. Find the sailing ship; find the edge. There never needs to be a flashlight. Adventure-pack! Screaming. One literary magazines were invented overnight. Two literary magazines were invented overnight. And more for that girlfriend to hate. A reference to a reference to a reference. Writing like C, with its pointers to pointers to pointers. Data structures in English, Third Edition. And I wasn't a kid anymore. And the skyline had changed. There were people, we figured out, who always lived in a post-skyline world, and people, we figured out, who had never lived in a post-skyline world. How could you never know about a skyline? How could you always? Then there were people on both sides, those of us who had pity-fucked an airline, entire hordes of LOTR orcs—pity-fucked! K.D. pity-fucking that chap on the tennis court. The trick is to mix truth and lies indiscriminately, to type with one finger and talk about writing at every turn. Symbolism of a symbolism. Lecture of a lecture. Pity of a fucking fuck. Pity-fuck. Write it three times loud. Athens, Ohio, and the Invention of the Zippertrick. Pity-fuck. Pity-fucking twitter critics who subtweet discontent from sterile armchairs. Plastic still on the cushions. You're writing a novel? We'll believe it when we see it, motherfucker. Good for you. Pity-fuck you with a retweet. Pity-fuck you with a couple of comments. Pity-fuck your blog. Everyone's writing a novel, haven't you realised that? Sometimes we use the English spelling. Or pity-fucking Cockney one. Your novel sucks. You spent a lifetime of ego-building exercises and it was all so admirable and in the end—really—your novel sucked. It got pity-fucked on a tennis court by Kirsten Dunst. With rhinoceros beetles dying in the sunlight. I saw this happen in Africa, once, with a couple of novels. Rhinoceros beetles were everywhere. K.D. was pitying from on high. Twitter didn't figure into it nohow. No twitter to save you. I couldn't take anyone seriously who was into politics. Glass of water. Rhinoceros beetle. Slow-mo introduction. Pity a text. Could it out-imagine you? Never. Could it make a play? Probably. Could it—don't say it. (Could it pack you in a backpack and carry you around to Houellebecq readings with unnecessary cigarettes and internet translation automatique—could it?) Could it re-invent punctuation with subtlety, trust a baby to sleep, stop mid-sentence and put the music on repeat? Penny Goring just sent me an email. It said something about a 'daft mare'—which is her Cockney way of saying this dumb bitch who left a comment on the site. Why do people assume that things have to happen in a story or a poem in the exact same way that they've seen them happen in their own real lives? It is worse than senseless—it is the exact opposite of the truth. For instance, in Things Said in Dreams, the protagonist (a girl) punches someone affectionately. Some daft mare a long time ago on some site came along and said she didn't think that was realistic, 'cause girls don't punch people. What the fuck. In my story they do, bitch. And in my life, they have. I've known women who punched other women affectionately—boys, even, in a pity-fuck-type situation. The whole point of a story is to talk about deviation—how the story deviated from what's normal. You don't tell a story that goes like this: A normal girl from a normal neighborhood walked down the normal street sat at the normal bus stop got on the bus with the same people she always rode the bus with and went to school. No. That is not the point of a story. You tell a story like this: a normal girl from the normal neighborhood got on the usual bus and there was a daft mare sitting on the backseat eating bear pussy with a wooden spoon. She was licking her lips greedily etc. Daft mare. What the fuck. Stupid bitch. Learn how to read a biscuit. Pity-fuck a walnut. See how far that gets you. Cunt. Penny Goring emailed me about a daft mare. Which is how you say in Engliz a stupid fucking cunt. No. Not only. A cunt who doesn't know a pity-fuck from a pickup truck. I swear. Get K.D. up in here and go medieval on your ass. That's two Pulp Fiction references so far. One really obscure Prince and the New Power Generation reference and a whole lot of titty-fucking. I mean pity-fucking. Daft mare. I swear. Stupid fucking bitch without a poetry license. Insert rant about the publishing industry here.

I want you to be afraid to email me.

DFW said he was doing 'research' but really he was a drunk.

Let's see how much more mileage we can get out of pity-fucking.

Not much more.

I told that to a girl once. We were making out and she said 'how much farther are we gonna take this?' and I said 'not much father than this' (with my hand on her pussy) and we did not fuck and looking back I should have fucked her. Should have done a lot more fucking than I did. But I didn't have any babies and I'm anti-parent so that's a good thing. I just don't think I can change diapers. Maybe when it's your own kid some instinct kicks in—the diaper-changing instinct—and you feel ok about it. I don't know. I just think I'd be a terrible parent because I'm too self-consumed and also I don't have a girlfriend so. I don't really want one. I did my fucking. Here and there. None of it was pity-. It was good, good fucking. (Pathological.) Tied up in a reference. But I had some sweet spots. Breadth not depth. What did Houellebecq have in his backpack? That is the question you need to answer, with internet videos. I have seen it, I have seen his backpack and it's just a normal backpack, blue, made by Keds, nothing special about it at all. That's got to amaze you: the Houellebecq is walking about with a Keds backpack, the same as you might buy. And what's in it isn't cigarettes, either. Just go look up what's in his backpack, will you? But you can't. It's one of those things you can't search for on google. Capital G. Contemporary cowboy. I never said I thought he was a genius—I said go look up what's in his backpack. Genius is a matter of taste. I claim that you can have one on your finger and never know that it was there. Like a gnat. A small gnat, pity-fucking Walt Whitman. Self-publishing. Orgasm. Simple as that. A pity-fucking gnat on Walt Whitman's finger, coming to orgasm in a Cockney accent. You see what I'm getting at here, I know you do. Oops, I repeated. I came again. It was an elephant accident. Elephant-accident: Elephant. Accident. Genius is the flavor packet in a package of ramen noodles. The salty part. I don't have to say what I believe. Did you catch me that one time? Writing notes that were lies, in my journal, so that if someone read me? I feel brittle today; this is the third day. Yesterday I was brittle all day. It's a feeling of the skin, and of the brain, and of the face, like I might break open and light come out, like I'm pumped up too high, like I might show cracks. It's a feeling of pressure. Brittle. I tried to take my medicine but nothing came of it. And I took myself off of one of my medicines. It was Lamictal. I didn't see why I should be taking it. So I titrated myself down (you have to titrate yourself on Lamictal)—I titrated myself down and now I'm on an amount so small that it would be safe to stop cold-turkey. Imagine a pity-fuck with one of them. A cold, turkey, pityfucking dandy, 13927, with a sponge. Just re-instantiate the nouns. Shave a barbiturate. Stop by the sushi turntable and get us a dollar's worth. Pimple on my lip. Pity-fuck it. With a needle. It might never heal. I might be stuck with this pimple on my lip forever, might scratch my arms too hard and bleed all over my drawings. One is of Eldon, the unicorn from Blade Runner. He trotted himself into my life. That was fucked up, dude, how you just cast off Kirsten Dunst like that. Called her a pity-fucker just cause of some scene in some movie. Effed. Got my blood taken for various diseases this morning. Most importantly those of the mind. But we're checking for other ones, too, just in case that girl I fucked in Vermont with her pussy bleeding might have given me AIDS. You never know. But I doubt it. She was white, kind of a high-class girl. Well not high class, but she was Irish, so I don't think the people she runs with have AIDS. We'll find out, though; might have only given me ringworm. The blood-taker girl this morning was very casual—it was like I was in my living room. After they did it the doc came in and said he was ready to 'spin her up' in the next room. The Irish one had diseases of the mind, too, but was afraid to say. I wish we could have been something, but she was too into..everything else. But she had red hair like I like and a well pussy and even liked to do a line of coke from then to then. We were two degenerates, it would have spiraled out of control. My days of spiraling are over. There's an automatic catch-mechanism. Having tried a few things. So-forth. Rocked me to sleep in a breast. Under blue light. Carry me. Teacher. Time. In a silent. Blanket. To Mars. I applied twice; was denied twice. Played pinball in the arcade. It was a perfect game. What if I told you Grace Gibbons was going to die? Would you care? What if a monkey could die of a bloodworm? What if she got it, what if it infected her? And she had to vein her arms up tight to flesh out the toxins, swelling, past the stoplight. What if the right of her way was wrong? What if she sang into a ribbon? I miss interfacing with pussy. I gave it up since I went into the hospital.

Pussy was nice. I'll tell you what I liked about it. It was a friend of a friend. It had a nature of its own. It was familiar, but coy. It needed to be washed to maintain its prime form. It stayed over sometimes but always had its own place to go back to. It wanted attention but could give attention in return. It was always up for coffee. It worked in regular shifts. It showered on its own side of the curtain. It liked to sit on my hand. It gave my dick a place to be. And it liked dick. It seemed to have been made for dick. It learned to swim when it was very young. It had rosy cheeks. It bade an expectation. Wandered a map. Cast itself in notes. It rode with me to California. Wore the red dress. Liked to play games. Knew my name. Yeah. Pussy was nice.

Pussy was friends with Juice Dog™. Dolores Claiborne was in there somewhere. Fried with rice. Pussy had a tendency to make me cum. I liked it wet, I liked it raw. I liked it red, to be fair. I liked it like rare steak, and I liked it on girls as young as twelve. You've got to know your number. I liked when it smiled, even when it was with its parents. I liked it especially when it had schoolwork. I liked it in skirts, I liked it with blond hair. I liked it when it lived with its parents. I liked it when it innocently used the internet. Liked it when it showed up at parties it had no business being at. Like it when it came with friends. Liked it in stores, and malls, and parks, when it sat with its friends on fountains and sat with its legs up, lay in picnic blankets on grass, with its pussy pointed right at me. I watched it in all these incarnations, imagined it as it screamed!^®^ Liked it in your children, wanted to put my fingers inside it just to play. Wanted to slip it in so gently and watch a 14 ride. She deserves to get off too. And get off on DickMonster. DickMonster Supreme. Lie back. Hold your head. Slip this in. Your eighteen-year-old daughter == more interesting than you. But that's ok cause I'm past it. Not on the radar. Only there for some intellectual interest, and that lasts about five seconds. You wrote a book? That's nice. Congratulations. Pass the chips. Let's go back to our yardwork. I read a book once. It was amazing. Yeah? Which one? It was one with a yellow cover. It went with the couch. But we're not going to lament the word in a sodgework such as this. Our domain is things like pussy and Juice and monkey-apes for an aperitif. She had white stockings and sunburn around the top of her legs, you could see her ass, where it came together and she was in about the seventh grade. She had a black jupe and an imaginary leg with a pad stuffed up in a pond, and I had her, had her in my mind when she dropped everything. Became a simple writhing imp with no clothes-lizard sweating on a rock. She had long legs and auburn hair and I knew she needed to be wrung out from toe to toe. A shaved head with posters taped to the back wall and one beer in her hand, she needed it—she needed it bad. And there were some twenty or so of us ready to give it to her. But she really did need it. I had to come in a sock to get my imagination. Got me all cummed out. And then it was like eating food: as soon as you're not hungry, you're not hungry, it goes away and your fog clears. I almost got hit by a car today. It happens every time I ride a bike. Imagine that. Imagine if that's how I die. Cherry little bitch. She needed to have those lesbian titties slapped. Hard. Those fashion glasses, that hipster shirt. I didn't care if she liked it with girls I thought she had pert tits that needed to be slapped!^®^ She had a winning attitude and was oh-so-intellectual, I could relate to being her. And at the same time wanted to slap those pert titties. She was the one the most like me, I think. I wasn't the cultured international outcase, from some poor culture somewhere, making it big in the states. I wasn't the elderly gay gentleman, with a cane and a voracious appetite for young ones. No, I was the lesbian intellectual, somehow, or in my case a non-practicing straight man—well, not exactly straight—but not exactly not—whatever, I never cared for such things. I never thought sex should be a matter of collecting. I never thought friendship that way, either. I wasn't about propping myself up with someone else's genitalia or their soap-habits either. Never much thought it made any sense. Why hold another to you with rage? That's what I thought most marriages were, ones with children anyway. Can't we all just procreate with test tubes and skeeve on cherry-popping skullfuckers in our spare time? I need a cherry wanagogo. Sometimes it's all it is that a someone needs to get off. Sometimes odd partnerships find each other to do this. I say it's a matter of respect. Is there a mutual headspace, a mutual respect? Then you have a partnership. Cherry backlot. Get your Rainbow Brite pussy into my car—your mom can ride along! As long as everyone benefits!—You can have a dowry! It's a matter of family. I did your wife. She was out exploring and those new tricks she taught you?—came from me. So, in a way, you and I, reader, are now fucking. Your fantasies have invaded mine and mine have invaded yours and we're going to call you Grace Gladys Gibbons from here on out! The fairytales will tell themselves to that name, no matter what name you had before. And the fairytales will be of cherry little bitches that you fingered in the backseat of their mother's cars—just the little finger! And you'd help them apply their tampons and applicators and other padular mob-streaks. Application with pad-gel. Brush it on. Remove sticky pad. Like turning up a rock with bugs and grubs spinning their way around the bottom. Doing this on fourteen-year-olds. What? What? Are you going to call the society of upset parents on me? I don't even believe in the parenting metaphor. Your paradigm can't attack me! I don't even believe in it! I'll smoke Kamels with every last one of you motherfuckers while you turn your daughters over to me on plates. It's all a lot tamer than you'd imagine. But, yes, I do have fantasies for every one of these youngins, and I don't think anyone really cares. Even if the cat leaves the cage, somewhat. I think you played it on repeat one too many times and engaged in a cousin-fuck when you shouldn't have, moderated it into a glance at a sister, emotions still rising. Maybe it's just a human thing. Maybe you can't moderate my chemicals. Maybe I'm just built to fuck. I want to perform surgery on all of you, rip you open (delicately) right down to your Grace Gibbons level, the monkey level, just above the reptile, saw your arms off and insert a longer segment so you can flap like a pterodactyl. I spelled that right on the first try! Baby. Then I'll tie your legs apart and perform experiments on you, like playing Doctor in preschool—but better. Cause we'd have real instruments. But you'd get tired of talking about all the rapes that you'd performed—you would—if you had performed so many. I own rape just as much as you do. I'm taking back the right to use any word I choose. Taking that back right now. See how easy that is?

But I'll suck a face as much as the next guy. Love to suck a face. And the thing that I can show them is how to cum, very simple. Their little 14 boyfriends don't know that yet. Can't show them. Are all too greedy. Sure they have the screamo! looks but they don't know how to make a 14 gut-fucking-cum. I do. =) I know how to swirl her. I know just where to poke her. I know how to slip her, to shift her, to cradle and bake her. To make her come on a clit finger. And I know how to make her feel dirty, which she is growing taste for, how to make her feel like she's doing things she's not supposed to do. I know how to combine all these elements to cum! Brrring! How to talk to her about herself so that she feels special (she is!), how to play with her her games. How to writhe her under the sheets, play with a dick puppet and shirk! the name right off. Play-ing! She came in my hand and there's a white wad of poop right there just like a dollop of shaving cream. That's what she left behind, and I put it in my mouth and swallowed. That was her shave, her left-behind. Then I dollop her ears and her eyes with that same shaving cream, and lick her out, so her eyes can see and her ears can hear, through little tunnels in the shaving cream I licked. The crevice of her eye, rounded with white. Now kiss my eye, and kiss my eye! Let me call you like a cat! Did you call her? Did she come? Yes. You called her. And she came. She came twice, once in the front and once in the back. And I patted her on the way home. And she called me mother, and we were on a magazine, and we argued the best way to do it, and people won, and they felt better about it. There was a majority, and the majority lost. My mind was full of nothing. And I pretended that it was difficult, when I knew it wasn't. There was no wrong way to do it. No lost star. Wandering, maybe. With one other viewer, All changes saved, Saving..saved. All changes saved. Document chat was enabled. I had heard screaming^®^ all morning and we had videotaped his screaming. Captured it for the doctors. To prove that he screamed. I just got some important updates in my email. I had to check it. Then I had to go back and double-check. Not to miss it. The ones with super-imagination. Who saw it all the way through. Who made a band, say, and thought it all the way to the edges, went out of their way to make it better than anybody had made it before—or as good as. That was the point you could get to. You could make it as good as anyone before had made, not necessarily better. But you could get to that point. Which was a certain kind of good enough. I had to pause in my words there and drink a cup of water. Which is a lie. I didn't drink a cup of water. I'm wearing a sweatshirt. That's a lie. Socks. That's a lie. Have a hangnail on my left thumb. Also a lie, even though I mentioned hangnails before. It's just some kind of common symbol that I'm pulling out. What does a hangnail mean? Who knows. Your guess is as good as mine. You're a beast; I knew it when I saw it. When I saw you picking out clothes in the shopping line. Rampaging dresses with pearls stringing from your fingers, dripping out your mouth, a club of mutton in the other hand, ravaging it. Rampaging. Ravaging. Rampaging. Ravaging. Watching movies with that girl who had no business watching movies. Showing her curiosity in a hand-stamp. That's all it was, too—she was just curious, thinking there's something out there to discover, lunging headlong into discovering it. And all the rest of us, smug in our adulthood, sharing the secret that there is nothing to be discovered, that there's nothing out there worth looking for—but you can keep looking! And we discover your youth with you, set it aside near a dumpster in the city of Tucson, Arizona. Riding a bicycle over my house to watch that movie. You had your skirt half-off when you walked in the door. Smoked a cig by the pool. It was—what movie was it?—it was Fight Club. I haven't watched that movie since. You said you always had sexual problems with your roommates, that sex was always getting you in trouble. And I can see why—I'm glad I didn't live with you. You had a thing for having things for people. Troublesome things with not-too-troublesome people. It was you, it was all you, and that's why we called you The Curse of The Jade Scorpion. Because her name was Jade. At least I called her that (in private). And tried to work out all her punctuation below the belt. But she had an admiration for me that was premature, and I couldn't take it, so I sent her home without supper and was glad. You can't be fucking around with those who make fucking around a primary form of trouble. Their lives are too short. You have to call a casket. And Jade Scorpion was never one for me, that's not my style. I'm too serious, have too serious a disposition to take advantage of one who simply has a girl crush on another. It's too simple. And maybe I should be simpler..but I'm not. Everthing doesn't always have to be consistent—you see? Two one time, three the next. It's all a series of dots, what's the difference. It's like salt, or a backyard, it makes no sense but it's fun to play in—or play with. Jade was fun to play with, though, fun to play with in pre-sex ways, like a walk up Fourth Ave or a trip to the music store. She has that way she rides that bicycle, though, that way she holds her legs and her middle part that looks like she's fucking the bicycle—or about to. I like that standing-on-a-bicycle way about her, that way she places herself on the bicycle while she looks up talking to you. Jade. Jade Jade Jade. I think we're about done with that. Except I'll tell you one more thing. Jade had a tendency to—

Transmission was cut short. Jade's captors hijacked the radio station. The story contained matters of national security. Your home may be searched momentarily, without your knowledge. TIME Magazine will do a story on why mothers who put their teets in the mouths of their children up to age five and why these mothers are better than mothers who use formula. Natural parenting explosion! If you don't drink beet juice for breakfast then you're shit. From now all citizens who don't drink beet juice from their mother's teet will be fed beet juice from a stranger's teet. Strangers' teets will fill the train stations, dripping with beet juice and the transmission was cut short.

We will make you drink beet juice motherfucker.

We will despair if we fucking want to.

We will infiltrate your literary magazines.

We will make them print sadcore. Sadcore cats and sadcore dogs. Sadcore naps and sadcore elephants and sadcore moms who couldn't feed their babies from their teets because something went wrong, because their machinery wasn't joyful, sadcore kids who had to drink from formula bottles and became serial killers because of it. Sadcore alien children who weren't parented correctly, who nipped when they should have tucked. Sadcore fathers, who copied essays when they were in college and never learned to read because of it. Sadcore dads, stolen from a literary magazine whose copyright line said "You are bestial.underline." That was copyright 2012. Thousands of years after -2019. Sadcore years when all it did was rain, and sadcore faces, slow to clench, sadcore breakups in hipster coffeehouses where only one of the couple bought a coffee. The other sat there munching on a straw. Sadcore pastry muffyns. Sadcore recovery addicts, reaching back for depressive perfection, trying to be 'realistic' about everything. Sadcore elephant-man. Sadcore slash. Sadcore cousin-fucking. Sadcore salad dressing. Sadcore in my photo albums and sadcore in this ticket that is left behind. Sadcore sentence rhetoric. Sadcore email moniker. Sadcore night rush. Sadcore style development. Sadcore schoolwork. Sadcore editing process. Sadcore dinner salad. Sadcore admissions process. Sadcore attendance. Sadcore makeout. Sadcore fingertip. Sadcore mole.

This music is scaring me.

I feel lonely.

I need a blanket.

A blanket to hold me cold. That's what my psychiatrist suggested—the good one. She said to figure out what physical feelings I was feeling when I felt suicidal, and we would deal with that. I thought about it. I wrote down what I felt. It was coldness, and certain coldness in the back and neck, a shivering in the stomach. That's part of what I feel when I feel suicidal; I feel lonely and I feel cold. And a blanket can help with those things, she said. Get an electric blanket that I just use for the purpose of warding off suicidal feelings. Only put it on when I feel like killing myself. See if it helps. And I need a blanket right now.

I need a blanket when I think about rape. I need a blanket when I think of how we're hurting each other. I need a blanket when I think of couples who argue. I need a blanket when I think about children who are without the proper supervision. I need a blanket when I think of myself, my own childhood, and how all these things happened to me. I need a blanket when I think about our lack of education. I need a blanket when I think about people in jail. I need a blanket when I think about my sisters—and that anything might ever happen to them. I need a blanket when I think about my mom—to think of how wonderful she is. I need a blanket when I think about my dad—to think of how terrible he is. I need a blanket when I think about adults, hurting. I need a blanket when I wake up too early and no one else is up. I need a blanket when I stay up late and it's just me and the streetlights. I need a blanket when I accidentally step on my cat's foot. I didn't mean to hurt him. And he didn't mean to get hurt. No one did anything wrong—and yet something horrible happened! I need a blanket.

That's what she said to do when I'm sad. I never actually got that electric blanket but I should have. I haven't had the money. But I think about it, maybe that's good enough, and today I'm not sad I'm raaaaaave and raaaaaaah and I've listened to Bad Romance maybe thirty times in a row. I'm singing in opera with beads in my hair and an African choker. My neck is the design of celebration. My hair is a party. My mouth is teeth made of cigarette lighters and my fingers are ChapStick Ice^®^. I am the first day of film school. I am the first time I tried crystal meth—before things got bad. The first time I kissed a boy. The first time I flew, without wings, in a dream. They said I'm stabilizing. By August I'm supposed to be complaining that life is too regular, and asking to come off my medication. I said I'm already asking to come off my medication, and secretly, I'm taking myself off one of my medications. (The Lamictal, as we'd discussed.) It's a minor drug. Probably doesn't do anything anyway. To many drops in the cocktail. Between you and me, if I had more money right now I'd be in bad shape. I have so much energy, so much exuberance, if I had money I know I'd be doing crazy things. Like I have in the past. But it's inevitable. I'm going to have money again. As long as I don't do drugs I should be ok. Including alcohol, right? Right. See? This book has characters. I need a blanket.

Now I've listened to Bad Romance thirty-one times.

Have you ever heard that song?

I think you would like it, Dear Reader.

What is a character anyway? It's an element, repeated. You see them over and over—or it: you see it over and over. It gains familiarity with you. It wins you over. You care what happens. You can relate to it, in some way. You see yourself in it. That's the key.

You see yourself in it.

If you see yourself in it, then you have a character (?)

I think so. See, I told you this book was going to be a book of nonsense but actually it's turning out to be the book of Whatever Comes to Mind. I think I have about half sense, half nonsense in here right now. And I've listened to Bad Romance thirty-two times. Was that sense or nonsense? I'll never tell. You should employ these same techniques in your writing, Dear Reader: never know when you start to tell the truth or when you start to lie. Combine the two, randomly. Make it like a dream. I know I'm going to, when I start to write regular books again. I'm going to write without an outline and without any plan but I'm going to write whatever comes to mind, and lie and tell the truth, interleaved. There was this woman in a mental hospital I met one time. The first time I was in a mental hospital. We played Yahtzee together for about a week. I gave her my phone number and said she could call me. She did, but I didn't answer. She was homeless and she needed a place to stay. She said her nips hurt and I said I would like to lick them independently of your pussy. Cursor-blink. Cursor-blink. Swoosh. I said to myself: "This is how I want to use twitter." No, I think Penny Goring is better than me. That's why she has more comments on fictionaut. She wrote a story about her "very own self-healing hymen" and it was a hit. I liked that story, but I couldn't pull it off. I tried once, but I couldn't pull it off. I had to make more outsider male art, and it was for a narrower audience, which was Moroccans with stretch marks. I was never accused of being a misogynist, not once. It was more a sculpture for the grave. When I popped the drug question Paulie Elliott went silence for a long while. He was thinking..I think he wanted to answer correctly. Paulie Elliott wasn't exactly known for silences. Maybe I should have thrown more soft-balls.

Would you submit to an interview?

Oh man, I LIVE to be interviewed. So uh yeah! Have at it.

Sweet. Thank you.

SWEET. I will answer absolutely any question you ask about myself. And you are welcome. I love talking about myself.

SWEET here too. There's a line in the book that says "I interviewed Paulie Elliott" so I guess it makes sense actually to do.

Hopefully I won't ruin your book. Should I be sober when I answer these questions?

Your choice. And my book cannot be ruined.

Okay. Well I'm sober now so here it goes.

Get comfortable. This could take days.

Okay I will take off my pants if you say so hey woah but not like taht okay. Okay.

The state of fiction. Your thoughts.

The state of fiction? I live solidly in the state of fiction. On the whole, it's about the same as anything else, except there's a bit more grace when it comes to fucking up. Is that what you mean?

Yes, it's exactly what I mean. I mean when it comes to media streams. For instance, how did you get to the state of fiction. And did you really take your pants off.

I willed myself into being. First in a book, then on twitter, then another book, and a blog . . . twitter keeps me alive these days. My twitter feed's about . . . 60% fiction. But then if you consider it's me me doing everything, and I'm not real, then it's all fiction. But it's not really about physical, tangible realness, but . . . realness in other ways. Yeah, my pants are off. But they usually are if I'm home, so don't feel special.

Don't worry about the pants. We're not trying to skeeve on you here. Just like our interview subjects to be comfortable. Let's talk about the moment that you willed yourself into being. What was it like? Can you give us some subjective sense of the experience? Was it a certain color? Did it smell? Did it utilize certain tools? Was anyone you know present?

Staticy, and kind of blueish-grey. Maybe more grey than blue—soft grey. And it felt like a dawning, something very natural like the sun rising or a flower opening. Something outside of people, seemingly done of its own volition, although you could analyse it for years to try and figure out the chemicals that make this sort of thing happen. I existed before my name did. And Sarah was there, of course, as I . . . maybe it's a kind of adam and eve thing, but backwards, because I was fashioned out of part of her. The first name that came to mind was Paul, and quickly after that I/we/someone realised it was better off as Paulie. And I stayed in one book, in a very muddy, unknown sort of way, for a very long time, until spring of '10, I think? I've been around for about two years online now. And then Sarah wrote a book about me—specifically—though the me in that book has more of her in me than usual. I'm a firm part of her mind now, though, no matter how much fiction I am. We see things together and sometimes agree and sometimes disagree, and in that way I'm not fiction at all anymore. But, willing one's self into existence? Like opening an eye. Very calm.

It sounds so. Who is Sarah?

Sarah is the ego. I'm the alter.

And what do you do together?

We watch netflix together . . . talk about how much we love Starfucker. Do you want better answers? It's not that we do things together, because we don't. We exist together in a weird way that doesn't make sense in reality. I live in seattle, she lives in california, and yeah, we've never actually met in person.

You introduced me to screamo. Can you tell me why you did that? You have infected me. Do you feel responsible? Do you think this is funny?

Did I? Was I sober? Is that why I don't remember this? Doens't matter, I guess. I like introducting people to the music I like. Kind of . . . it's way of connecting to people, of course, and with people you know online it's a way of getting acquainted with a side of them you'd usually only be exposed to if you knew them in real life. It is also a good way to seek out potential girlfriends/boyfriends/people to have sex with. I feel responsible for little I do. It's an issue. No, not funny. I'm being serious. Why would it be funny?

Do you have sex? I mean given that you're somewhat fiction.

Oh yeah. You don't even KNOW. This topic I could probably talk about for weeks. Months. I'm a very busy man.

We've heard about your boasts. But you can understand the public's reluctance to accept at face value the claims of an alter ego. Are you and Sarah a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Is she a reality to you, where you escape? I would assume that it's not just her who finds escape in you, but that it works the other way around.

My claims are all valid. Most of them. 85% of them. I . . . don't really have anything to do with her in that way. Her life transfers into mine, but mine never ever transfers into hers. You can't assume things about her from the things I say. Unless it's something about how shitty netflix is or something about our iphones being fucktards. That's always legit both ways. We get so frustrated with technology. My escape is drugs, alcohol, sleeping with my ex again. That sort of thing. When I escape I generally do away with reality as much as possible.

Recently you wrote "I had a dream about my own wedding? It was weird? I got a bloody nose in the bathroom right before hand and the blood was EVERYWHERE". What do you think that means?

I get bloody noses a lot because my nose is fucked up. Although it's probably a stress dream, you know—having to be somewhere, something important going on, but not being ready for it, or being delayed and not being able to do anything about it. Not a very typical dream theme for me, I'm afraid.

What is your typical dream? In waking life, what do you dream of becoming?

Typical slumbering dream? I dream about sending email, tweeting, doing stuff at work a lot. But then I have nightmares about my teeth sometimes. Not the teeth falling out, though, not quite that. Although that's an extremely disturbing thought. I don't think I want to specifically be anything. It's more . . . people I want to be with. I guess I just don't want to be alone. In the end, that's it, I think.

Which people do you want to be with?

I fall in and out of love with my best friend quite frequently. I spent most of 2010, some of 2011 completely, hopelessly in love with her, and it was not mutual. I still think she's amazing, and I still like to think I could make her happy, but if she doesn't want it . . . I guess that's that. And there's always a part of me in love with my ex girlfriend. The ex. We spent about six years together, on and off again. I've known her for the past nine years, and a lot of the time, when I'm feeling this kind of doom of being single forever, all I want is to just get back together with her and try—again—to make it work. I think she feels the same way too sometimes. But she's marrying someone else in November. She's cheated on him with me, but I find I can't really care about that.

What is your best friend's name? What about The ex?

Rachel is the best friend. Sadie is my ex. Her full name's Alexandra, which I often forget, and every time I remember it seems very odd. Legally, we're Paul and Alexandra. Sounds like strangers.

Tell us about the drugs, Paulie.

Hm. I've done most of them. Like a classy child of 12, I started huffing spraypaint in middle school. That was cool. Yeah. Then in 8th grade I got expelled from my middle school for having pot. By the time I was 16 I was into cocaine—my best friend Thomas, who died a year later of a drug overdose, got most of the drugs because he had an older brother who had connections. Pot, coke, alcohol, those were the big ones in high school. I was put through rehab the summer before my senior year of high school. Missed a bit of high school because of it, actually. Didn't seem to matter. I was clean for a bit. Then Thomas died and I was kind of fucked up, but that didn't push me back into drugs. When I left california to come here to seattle for college I was sober for . . . maybe a year? Towards the end of my first year I was drinking again. Not a lot. Then I started dating Sadie and she liked to drink, so I got back into the blacking out routine of high school . . . then just lots of drugs, lots of alcohol. Managed to stay away from coke during college. When I was with Sadie I was usually okay, not that out of control. But we took care of each other a lot, I think more than we realised. When she cheated on me, when the big break up happened, I, well, understandably kind of lost it. Drank a lot. Did tons of drugs. I had a fuckbuddy at one point—late 2010—that I'd get together with and do shrooms and just get as wasted as possible for an entire weekend. Rachel helped me get out of that relationship. But of course I went back a few months later. This is all kind of scattered, I know, but you know the drugs aren't really an independent thing—there's always some reason for them. With Abigail—the fuckbuddy, then girlfriend kind of—I started doing cocaine again. I did e one night, which I really like, but it makes me really, really depressed afterwards. It was kind of that and other shit that made me overdose in . . . January 2011. I actually died, for about two minutes. But they brought me back. I had to shape up after that—it was mostly poor cold turkey attempts which didn't really last. I'm supposed to be about eight months sober, but I've been drinking again. And I'm smoking again. I've been smoking for about 11 years now. I'm not really expected to make it past 35. Oh, and I still smoke pot more than I probably should. I think I was born to smoke things, though.

I'm sorry about your friend.

Thanks. Yeah, that's still kind of rough. He was only sixteen, and I know he didn't want to die. And I was in love with him—I always fall in love with my best friends. I don't think I can help it. He was kind of how I found out I was bi. But he was straight, so, you know, and I was young anyway. Nothing would've happened, I think, if he hadn't have died. But that doesn't mean I still don't miss him.

Let's take a break, Paulie, ok, and resume tomorrow?

Yeah, that's a good stopping point. Shit, I'm like all emotional now and—eugh. Okay. Yeah, tomorrow's good. I'll be sitting around scratching my ass (aka doing nothing).

Ok, thanks Paulie. I interviewed Paulie Elliott.

And I started crying. Good job, man. Ffffeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelingz. (The other side is nothing worth remembering.)

Paulie was right. The other side was nothing worth remembering. The other side was a copyright notice. It was bestiality. It was 'I wrote something today I'm afraid to show anybody'. The other side could suck my dick, and Paulie's, for bringing us this far. An alter ego for an alter ego. Nothing like a daguerreotype for a daguerreotype. Are you following me on all this? Are you doing your research? Good. I would hate to be left behind, no one caring what happened to Paulie or Grade Gladys Gibbons or maybe even me. Pity-fucking a tire swing. Kissing my first grade girlfriend through a tunnel we made with our hands. It was soooooo cute. Picking the right number of 'o's for such a construction is a dicey matter. One might even say delicate. I do it by intuitive feel. I believe it is quite important and I don't wish to be lazy in this matter. Pity-fuck the tire swing, will you? The cream of a glass of milk. Orange and black markers. That last sip of milk. Paulie would go seek a boyfriend. And what would come of that? We should have talked to Paulie more about writing. If he knows anything of it. That's too bad about Paulie's friend. I had a similar friend. You might have heard of her? She turned twenty one in my bathroom. She died of a drug overdose. It was the most terrible thing that's happened in my life. And we have to be all over the place, people who know people who died of a drug overdose. All these stories of the people left over after our friends' bodies gave out after they did too much drugs. And we did drugs with them. So we felt guilty. And most of all, we felt Why Not Me. Why are they dead and we're here walking around alive, got away with it, didn't take our drug habit to the extreme, least not the extreme they did. Maybe we had less to run from. Even though we had a lot to run from. But maybe we had less. In the end, GaGa sang a song for us all, anthemed us together in pop diceyness. Some of us became psychos while some of us just died early. It was the war of our generation. "Walk, walk, fashion baby." "I don't wanna be friends." Did you become a psycho? It was cool for a while, until about thirty-five; it was cool especially from 15-25, to be a psycho—no problem there. Once you weren't on your parents' insurance anymore it was less cool to be a psycho. Doing the psych unit tour. I was locked in one when I was about thirty; it was my first inkling that I was insane. They kept me there for a week and decided I was ok to go back to work. I couldn't wait to get out of there. Except: there was a moment. When I was doing art class one day with all of the permanent psychos, I thought: this is better than all the conference meetings I've ever had in regular employment; I'd rather be here with these people than with any team I've ever worked with in white collar America. And I stand by that now. Work teams in our work world are some of the dimmest, dingiest, dumbest, darkest compositions of breathing hearts ever assembled. Doing art in a psych ward beats it all, anyday. At least there people are honest with you. I'd rather kill myself than work another day in corporate America, and I might have to kill myself. I might be dying right now, might be cleaning out my locker right down to the dreggs. It's gonna be one clean locker, though: no possessions, no significant relationships outside of family, no money, almost no clothes. One bicycle, which I don't even own. A phone, that someone let me borrow. And one computer, where I write this, rambling, sketch, unplugged, text. Maybe it would come to a halt. Maybe Paulie had said it all for both of us. Maybe Grace Gibbons didn't need to say no more. Maybe we didn't need any more pity-fucking or paedophelia. Ok: it wasn't even real pedophelia, because it wasn't with children. I admit. I'm not even a real paedophile. I just like really hot teenagers. Who doesn't. Glad we got that out of the way. Now we can go back to being a sorry burnt-out drug addict loser who thinks he can write a book. Ooooh. Comfy. Fits me all the better. Maybe Grace Gibbons has something to say about this. Grace? Maybe later. Grace is on break. Deflated. Dining on monkey-swine. With all the financial problems of a large bank. Drawing at right angles. Sweeping me, a paintbrush. Glossing us on. Grace Gladys Gibbons comes in to help us move some flats we constructed. I dreamt of the perfect pocket tool. A needle in the end of a screw. Hypnagogic. Writing for a rat in a bucket. Public schools. Long interludes. Not as tight as normal progressions. A multi-instrumental. Try-outs in the cafeteria. Practice in the gym. The girls there had on all the costumes. Don't ask what we did with them..I'll just say that I got to watch them change. They transitioned, from the toe up, into giant monarch butterflies, flapping their arms and changing the battery pack right out of the small of their backs, like Shakespeare. Something from Hamlet, the pool scene. I was born in a surrealist muck. It smeared on me like Nutella, and I licked my lips. Once out of my left ear and once out of my right. Took a Q-tip to the sandwich and ate it ragamuffyn style, kicks on top of the train as we rode through south LA, all the really trippy parts. If you were born there you might not think it was trippy, but if you're coming right back.. We ate the trippy parts out of peanut butter. I had a snail. She got together with sushi and gin. I was invited but I never showed. She made masks. Right before the wedding I swear she was feeling out the idea. But I didn't jump, I wasn't ready to be a homewrecker though she did make good masks. So gin. And piano. A rocks glass. The dojo. Spiritual master stopping off at the bar. Bar culture. The girl who works behind. You've seen her somewhere before. And her mother killed herself. She might be a good candidate for marriage. Except she believes in open relationships. Which basically means she's with someone, but you two can fuck. I liked that girl Justine; she had a boyfriend. Everyone in Vermont has open relationships. I need to move back to a small town. But small towns are so hard to move to. Mouthing the words to a monologue. Paulie had spoken out on being born from the abyss, of coming to be imagined, like a Real Real Boy from Pinocchio, being imagined by Sarah, written into a book, solidified, textified, and now he's sitting at home in his underwear giving an interview. I could do the same. I could, I knew it. Could come from nothing, make a big deal out of it, and breathe myself into life on a page. There would be much argument. The comments would be split like a checkerboard. Opposition would be staunch. Fans would be entrenched. I would be on their side as much as they would be on mine. But we'd pull it through, pull it through in a quiet little moment called France. One Francophile. Two Francophile. Three takeaways from a status meeting. You had it there, with whiteboard markers and the clock ticking, addressing your smart phone under the table while you tried to listen. What your boss was telling you. The goal: (to make him rich). The method: (you get to work your ass off). It was supposed to be called a kanga pocket and yet—where was the kangaroo? Four Francophile. Grace, say the prayer.

They sent us here to be monkeys. From space. And the Egyptians were gene-splicing with a genotaur. Someone's hand slipped and that gave us China's teeming masses. Oh! It was all about having a shitload of babies. That was all it was about. So I should have been a natural parenting fanatic after all. Should have believed in the parenting metaphor. Poor people having babies trumps you every time. The dumber you are, the more fucking children you have. Then Catholics and Amish people take over the world. Poor Mexicans. Having a miiiilllllion babies. Too fucking dumb to stop. Pumping them out. It's so ironic, but I'm cleaning a mole. His nostrils were filled with a porus-like substance called Slack™. I have a pipe cleaner in my left hand and a bottle of MkTyoIplsx in my right. I'm reaming the fuck out of this little guy's nostrils but goddammit he's gonna be able to breathe! Have a character license. Without which you can't have babies. Stop making heads. Make them on choice occasions. Don't make fifteen when you can make two. That's just an iceberg. You can ignore it if you want. So dear heavenly cradle, who made us in simulation and froze us at version 5.7.2, please bring us a beast for lunch. Make her sour. Make her savage. Make her skin poison and make her eyes a salad. Keep running the simulation, dear cradle, and heap woe upon the heads of everyone who's not me. I had a miracle back there somewhere and I don't want to forget it. Someone left the cage door open. My feeder swabbed the tank. Anything with a middle name is fair game. Make me believe I'll live forever, swathify me in this belief, cradle. Choose for me to ignore the moment—did I mention make my neighbor miserable?

This was Grace Gibbons' idea of a prayer. It was about as long as a blog post, and with about as much class. She prayed it every night (a version of it) whenever she was asked and she washed her hands in MkTyoIplsx out of habit. I'm not even sure Amish people have that many kids. But Grace has her reasons. I think she was harmed by her younger siblings when Grace was young. Monkey-love. Dribble in a nibble. Why did you get a phone number if you never want anyone to call you? Does it make me a pervert to text you? Am I inconveniencing you? Imposing on you too much as another human being? Did it matter that I just wanted to finger you while you read your email? Where exactly was the harm? Her clit got hard. Grace Gladys Gibbons took one bite of her salad. Kirsten Dunst drank a glass of milk. Oh! She's lactose-intolerant? Well I'm fucking sorry. She drank it anyway. She pity-fucked it. Grace is dead. Or maybe we just got lucky. The dishes between commercial success and any kind of critique. Of a conscious animal. Leaving its mark. Can you actually struggle with poetry? It's become one of our characters. An idea, repeated. I don't think you can undo this. I don't think you can put it back. I think it only goes forward. I would stop spouting philosophy if I was you. Is it good art? Is a Taco Bell burrito good art? Some scam descriptions of sex scenes? I got you in your interview. I got what you said there. It was a good deal sharper than what I had to say, so I'm glad we got it. We'd refrain from talking about religion. Grace Gibbons might want to. This is the simplest structure possible. And yet, Grace Gibbon works. She works for me. She came on at 6. She's works till 2. Shift her into second gear. Your most creative games are fun to play. I'd make it a habit. Even a career. Stick yourself to it, and play yourself into a cloud. Even the shock authors have hair-breathing Dragons. Sometimes getting incapably drunk is a mode of operation. I experienced it. A stumbling question from an out-of-depth questioner. Deflating the echo chamber. Technique. Dischord. Polemics. Found a way to swim. Words breathing like bubbles. RTFM. There is a way through this. Find it. Find it. Irish drove me around one day, we got cigarettes. I would have liked to be close with her. And I'll lament this forever but we were too lukewarm. I know she liked me. I liked her back. We even fucked. But we weren't on the same page. She wasn't on any page. And neither was I. Enough to smoke cigarettes together and manage to fuck once. We might have even arranged it twice. But nothing there. And why didn't I connect? Why didn't I connect more? I'm a love-it-or-hate-it; I'm an acquired taste. You either love me or hate me. I'm the same way about others: I either love them or hate them. At least I used to be more that way. But I am, deep down. I'm just like Zooey. I learned to breathe underwater, at an early age. It allowed me to scope out advanced locations under the radar of company, and survive without speech. Squealing. And a muzzle. Cement your reputation. Win the media segment. Create what others cannot deny. You do. You do. I knew you do. (Intentional.) Forget the desire to shock. Be Western. Imagine what it would be like if you could laugh. If you could really laugh. Now do it. That's your work. Cut out the soft parts. Tame it never. Glue yourself to paper. Go even though your insurance doesn't cover it. Let your personality proceed you. Don't stop. Never stop. Never, ever stop. Paulie won't stop. Grace is too fucking insane to stop. I won't stop. I won't. I won't even kill myself. I promise. You promise, too. Promise not to stop.underline. Survive your early life. Move to Ireland. Only you can do it. Shave your head. Focus on one thing. Be evil. Talk about everything. Say it in Spanish. Be contradictory. Love yourself daringly. Describe things in specifics. Love layers. Erase the lines. Return the dangerous laugh. Misunderstand yourself. Squeeze it out. Be willing to hate. Make bold statements. Cut. Fancy you.

Did I mention capable? Did I mention true? Did I mention that you have a pea in your sweet tooth? Stuck there, like a lodge. Create paragraph-long descriptions of the apocalypse. Create chapter-length introductions to a lexicon. Release our killing beast, rehearse the kissing alongside the killing. Re-punctuate. Re-phrase. Re-construct. Leave aside struggle. Ignore academics. Never defend. Pity a child. Pity that they can't change their own diaper. Pity that they shit all over themselves. Love them especially-much for that, give them extra sway. They're doing the best they can, children, they deserve our help. Laugh with a hand. Laugh with a stomach. Don't be general. Let the issues arise on their own. Allow yourself to catalog. Verb. Deny the anger. Still feel it, just deny it through your grinning teeth, and bite on it like a fly. Don't worry about the effect. Let a reader be a reader. Let a critic be a critic. Let a writer write words. Let a talker talk. Let an indexer index. Let a drinker drink. Let a rider ride. Verb. Let an understander understand. Let a thinker think. Let controversy controverse. Let silence sit. Imagine a thousand words in a luncheon brisket, and don't worry about the spread. In a word? I'd call it tremulous. Bitchin'. Hungry. Careful. Loose. Racing. Fibral. Silent. Fascinating. Detailed. Difficult. Unforgiving. Forgetful. Sideways. Stalinist. Quiet. Quick. Useful. Vader. Literary. Obscene. Intellectual. Unformed. Impactful. Intimate. Scarce. Ideal. Longitudinous. Female. Loathesome. Sprawling. Secular. Repetitive. Pornographic. Provincial. Referential. Growl. Growl. Growl! Rawr! Really growl! If you're reading this out loud, really growl! If you're reading this in your bed, growl! Growl sexy, growl loud, growl growl growl!


Find a peanut butter sandwich.

Add cheese to the sandwich.

Eat the sandwich.


Put seventy-five words in a syringe and lock off your wrist. Get all comfortable, get in your PJs, settle in on your bum-bum. Imagine your blood as a sequence of black letters, scraped from the newspaper, i's and e's and q's, wrapped in a syrette, with clear liquid between. Push down on the handle, pump it into your veins, feel the letters go in one by one.

Sarah has an alter ego. That's Paulie Elliott. I interviewed Paulie Elliott for my book. Sarah is the ego. Paulie is the alter. I just gave up. I gave up. I took the pill. I just took one of my anxiety medications and now I am everything that's wrong with the world. I can't handle the moment I can't handle people loving me I can't trust what they say. They try to get close to me and I push them away. Or maybe they're trying to hurt me, and I'm defending myself. I can't tell. Why can't people live and let live a little more. Everyone has their own right way of doing things. Paulie would never have done that to me. Paulie would have let me do my thing. Paulie, you've got to be here for me. Be here in grace. You've got to tie my ribbons, let me cry in your hair, you've got to let me die quietly and anxiety-free. Put me back in the hospital, I was better there. You didn't need to read these words, you had it better without me. Paulie has never been in the hospital. Paulie went to rehab. Paulie cares. Paulie understands me. Paulie and I can watch E.T. in the front row with our handless sweaters and popcorn bracelets, Paulie's legs can swirl around mine. Paulie can feel my leg. Paulie has no regrets. Paulie cried it out too, one night. And I wish tonight had never happened, wish I was cradled in a bathtub with a bottle of wine in my hand, warm and deep. Wish I was chasing Miss Irish again, wandering around behind her at the fair. Doing lines of coke. Just a few lines, then we'll go back to the bar. I think simple people had it all wrong, really. Think you had to try coke, think you had to go to jail. Think you had to fuck up your life, real good, to even have a chance. Think the sincere and meaning hugs from squares are all wrong, all the fake stuff, everything I want to be against. There's a bike shop with a false railing, you can slip your bike down. Riding, and riding, down a sentence structure. Slipping, and following me through Alice's hole. Tumbling, a distance from the top. Brace me for the support group. Will I learn I'm fucked for life? How much do I have to confess to you, before you offer up a lie? I'm impossible to talk to—what are you? I have a thousand suspicions, a thousand ways to fear you, and I'm hiding now behind my meds. Little pink pill. Soon I'll be as calm as a cow. I'll have the face of aching. Paragraphs will write themselves, sensically. The document of Whatever Comes to Mind will eat itself alive. Burn itself, through the words. Halfway between here and your fingers coming off. Mole me through Frenchie's. Did you find a diagnosis? Was it capability or was it chalk frenetics in the ape-shit. I had a full thought in the office, once, in the waiting room. That was 1985. There was a man standing there, dressed like Ronald McDonald, and he was showing me something on his computer. Since this is 1985, the computer was giant, like a suitcase, and this little brown screen and a manual that said, "The Art of Monologues". You said you were afraid to find me dead and maybe you should be. I take that back: you should be. I'm wired on a pinwheel, couldn't take me to the disco. Hair-trigger to fall apart, around every corner is the sunlight flashing. Pulsing, asking me home. This morning my side hurt. I doubled over. I wished it was me melting. When I stand in front of the microwave I hope it's tearing me apart. And those little pink pills—those little pink pills. I want to take a handful, I do. You're going to die anyway. I've started to flirt with this, and once you've started to flirt with this, then flirting with it is legal, just like everything else. I took some pills last fall. They rushed me to the hospital in an ambulance and made me eat charcoal—this charcoally substance that bonds with the pills in your stomach and makes you not die. Why did I do that? Because I didn't see a way forward. Because I was through. I'm not far from there now. Every argument is another place I do not want to be. Every seeming insult—why would I want to be here? Part of my problem is I don't see the meaning in life, I mean in my life. I don't get what I'm doing here, why it matters, what it comes to. Don't see love, don't see it possible. Feel distant, feel like I'm on the outside of the circle. Nothing of love makes it through my skull. My sisters reach out to me—I sit. I can't feel it. I'm dumbed-down when it comes to love. Is it because of my dad? My one sister is quite similar—she doesn't get close to people either. Is it because of Rebecca? (She's the one who turned twenty-one in my bathroom.) Rebecca. Rebecca. Died from ecstasy, when we took it together. Went into a coma and never came out. I gave her the ecstasy. Will I always be writing about that event? I've never left that night. I'm still with her in my apartment, dying together—except only she died. Rebecca. She would hate me for taking this little pink pill, I know she would. We were all about doing it naturally (except when it came to ecstasy) and the doctors said she could have died of a Sudafed (she was severely bulimic). Rebecca is my tragic drug story. I'm the one she left behind. I was with her when she died, or at least when she went into the coma, and no amount of writing is going to exorcise her from me. You don't want to repeat yourself. And yet, you have your themes. I'm worried they're talking about me behind my back. I'm paranoid, simple as that. But let me tell you about the grocery store. I wish I could drink some alcohol. Forget it. I'll tell you about the grocery store. They really cared what I think—they said they did! They want to make a difference for me! Wow. I think they really do care—they might just be nice people. When can I think to, that I had met some of those? It makes me think less of them that they'd care for me. It makes me wonder. I wonder what they're really up to. That's how the line of reasoning goes. It's not sensible. But it's what I do. I want to trust them. I want to believe that they love me. I don't think there will ever be the kind of trust and equality between us that any of us wants—I don't think we'll ever have that. Grace Gibbons would be totally out of her league. If you assign this book, you should assign it in pages..read page 279. Read page 187. Don't assign the whole book, just pick favorite pages and swap. I think it would be nice if it was printed without page numbers..just one continuous document, formatted as a scroll, that you can roam through. I am weak because I took those pills. I'm getting sleepy. My writing will suck. My usefulness will totally go away. And I'll be sleeping—one step from death—and my mind will be rebuilding itself for tomorrow. It will be taking everything that was hard about tonight and asking itself to try again. So eager. So optimistic, the mind. Getting it all together for another go. And I suppose I'll be on board, hacking myself into a frenzy again, not-thinking about suicide and not-skipping my medication and not-hating myself and my life for at least a few minutes out of every day. That's my goal. Not-hate myself for thirty minutes a day. See if I can do that. Without medicinal help or a sponsor. Hold my hand. Why do we write about each other? Because—it's not because we show each other the way forward. It's because we show each other how to fail. I was violated tonight by two pixies. They were each carrying a gun. There was a shepherd with them, speed-dogging himself to the bath. He was emotionless, and hugged me only to lightning. I saw the pixies coming, they shone me with a stick and buttered my backside for ageless consumption. Rebecca loved me when I had one play and a parted life. I was nothing but a fool. But I was her kind of fool. You do arrive at the idea that it makes more sense to do things alone, rather than with others, because others go away. They disappear. It makes more sense to you to do things by yourself, to circle around in half-grimaces and coughing holds—in pink, sometimes in blue. Than to make yourself a mess by playing on the field. Waiting for someone to die. For the ultimate tragedy to happen. For some alliance to be broken. For you to really not love me. For you to have been plotting behind my back—talking about me when I am not there. Have I been fearing this all my life, without reason? Am I making this all up? Did no one ever try to hurt me? Or am I taking all the blame, when others are along in all this? Rebecca and I danced, we danced, we sang, we meditated, we had something, and I will always miss you. No matter how young you stay and how old I get, no matter how far away from now you become, I will always miss you. I want that with someone new, but my life is too messed up. I wrote you for a mile. Maybe if a miracle happens, or maybe three, I might have love again. It will be despite myself. They called and asked what I want for dinner. I think they really love me. They called and asked—they're bringing it. I think they're truly nice people. We could have dinner together!—if they don't hate me. I wonder where my self-esteem problems come from. My parents weren't that horrible, were they? Some AA sponsor a while back said he thought it was the addict in me that felt that way. I think he's full of shit. I don't even believe in the AA paradigm—I don't now. It's a bunch of waking sadness and quick mores for how to live without getting invested. Don't love while you might mess it up. Don't breed your expectations. Don't mix with people who might corrupt you. I think I'll take the big bad world. I think I will. I think I need to learn to walk around a fountain holding the hand of a girl I love. Maybe even like. Just like. I could learn to like like. I don't know if I would love love but I could like like. I know that I'm supposed to be lost—that it's the sign of being on a journey. But I need to get used to it in all aspects of my life, not just in some. She tied her hair around a ribbon and lifted her arms. I saw her shaved. And she opened herself to me, and I kissed—just kissed—just gently kissed her lips. I said, "Danielle, you are a miracle," and she smiled and let me kiss her again. We did dot-to-dot with the stars and my name was spelled backwards there..even then she didn't miss a dot. The punctuation was bleeding. They tried to make a film but everything got lost except that her name was Danielle and her armpits were still shaved. But it didn't have the ring of the canyon, it didn't have the dust motes above her laughing grin. (It was a casting problem.) I was very, very tired now because of my pink pill, and felt like a loser for taking it, and felt like all that was good about me had been sucked out. And I hated the idea of falling asleep, and I hated the idea of waking up tomorrow and everything being reset. I wanted to continue, continue through, keep it awake and keep it continuous, keep it all online. I thought that was the only way I'd make progress—the only way I'd figure anything out. I thought the project was doomed. I was only continuing it now as a way to structure my days. I wanted more art, less madness, but I was getting all madness and not too much of that, even, wanted myself back in the Robishone days. Even though Robishone didn't mean anything I thought it sounded perfect there. You had yourself a narration. Nothing any less than the narration of a shipwreck, of the boat on choppy seas, of ten little boys and a crashed plane, fighting for survival. I might fight against sleep, keep you with me, keep you along for speed. Robishone knew me. Knew my inclination for nonsense and my declaration of first-draft-ness. I felt sick for having told the truth tonight, felt sick for them having known me, known me bare. It made me in my stomach. Made me past music. Dis-invented me that I might be crazy. I was making it all up! They were fine! I was the one—I was the one who's wrong! I am the fucked-up one! They can all admit that. I can too, and it's killing me. Broke me apart. I was the sorry-sad one! I was the bore! Open my gullet; let me drink the water down in escalades; let me attack. Don't write trash. I'm still warming up. Who will be interpreting these phrases? A race-car? How much thought went into each construction? How much value can we attribute to it? If he thought about it more, then is it worth more? Can we pay for italics. Toblerone. Was 9/11 a hoax? Is this burrito carbon-free? What is my word-count obsession? 25366. 25367. I don't wanna be her: she's still an alcoholic. I had a stray bean. They said it was good to be obsessed. Well: I'm obsessed. Writing all the time: is that bad? What if I need glasses? There's a floater on my eye. Breakfast will be in half an hour. Your tickets are this way, sir. I had almost recovered. I could go on television soon. Build me a brickway. Exposing. Lofty halls. Maybe I really was the wrong one. Learn not to listen. We never had an understanding. Your hold on me was inverted. And all the rules are questions. I want to forget. I wish tonight had never happened. The medicine is taking me. Down.

Afraid to go to sleep.

I don't wanna think anymore!

Wishing that I'll fall down the stairs.

That conversation with Danielle is way too much like the conversation with the Swede—or: the Norwegian—from earlier. Consider hanging yourself.

My brain was like wrenches, it had been clogged. Wrench after wrench lodged in my pathways, like these little metal clamps, with eye hooks at the ends, curled around. Like Lincoln Logs. Like Pick Up Stix. They were too familiar, I could feel the love but I couldn't take it. It reminded me of my old friends, who are now dead. I used to live with them for a while. We would all roll around on the bed and wash dishes together and it was love-ey-dove. Something happened to me in the interim. I became shut-down. Skipped some adjectives. Invaded a new style. "I'll miss you" is too much emotion for me. How did I get like this? Maybe it was having mass people die, maybe it was feeling isolated, maybe somehow it was the drugs. All the stars in the sky turned blue for me. Simple sentences held me in a wrap. My water was Arsenic Free. There was a little piece of phlegm in the back of my throat. I snorted. That made it go away. This was just the preamble. This was just the first volume. There was more of this to come. And I had a vision. And it was of me taking a bike ride. And Yoda was in the basket on the front of my bike, like the Wicked Witch with Toto. Toto and I were starting a reading group, you had to be a Jedi Master to come. Or at least a white woman. Mysteries in a handrail. Carry me on you, carry me into the sky. Below will be Oz, and they'll mix water-hamburgers to an ocean's point, brimming them, feeding us with orange, and a little black. Confident to the chord, Yoda's band will play us softish melodies, collecting drums in the hippie apartment, sitting on the floor while we all smoke pot. I had saintly conniptions. My voice was in a pipe. Reprogramming the original hardware, I felt distortion. Heard it rearranged. Yoda smoked a bowl and I told him I was cutting back, needed to keep my frames arsenic-free for the interlude. Yoda, understand me man, I need to keep me arsenic-free for the interludes. He acted like he knew. Had an empty play yard with crack vials up against the fence. A couple of kids wandering this way to beat me up. Got cracked in the back of the head by the concrete. Under foot, I was a wisdom. My black shirt had blood on it. Scraped on the edges. My foot had a tack. These verbs are killing me man—killing me. They have a single tense in a crackbone. Wondered me up to a fish. Glorious, glorious fysh, you got tired and decided it would be better to die. Glorious fysh. You got fat, got old, got tired, and lost your nerve. You lost your edge. You lost your love. You lost your entire shit and ended up writing sonnets on the back of a tray. You were something around the tenth grade and then maybe again around twenty-three. Then maybe once again around twenty-eight. Or maybe not. That last one might have been a fluke. Weed the fucking garden, man! Expel the wish-fishes! Or maybe, maybe the world really has changed. And for this there is no solution but wait. There's no revolution possible. Just complacence. Just a sitting in a chair. Just tweeting about my problems: politics as tweet. "Awareness" isn't changing anything. I don't even think the bike rack can hold three bikes. So I wasn't going anyway. I was always staying home. Sitting home, selfishly. If I had cigarettes I'd be smoking them. I'd regret it later but I'd be smoking them. I don't think a little bit of poison minds. But I'm glad I'm not smoking, glad my lungs are clean. I'll watch interviews later, four streams at once, guiding my brain into never-fuck with a chance in a window, some guy who works at Disney, consciousness blamed. Consciousness Exclaimed. We were getting ready to go. Our verb tenses had wailed their brains out, and were getting tired from naptime. Marcellus Wallace had given out his party favors, all in green; we had no need for gimpage. They had brought in the wolf, somewhere around the third paragraph, and serifs were exclaiming! My ecstasy-pool had been prepared. The verb tense was standing on the diving board in a towel. We all said, "Jump!" but she shivered and slung her legs over the edge. The ecstasy-water was shimmering with electric light. An old-fashioned more crashed the party. They all started narrating. Marcellus Wallace blew into his green party-noise-maker and laughed. My water bottle was empty. Detectives flooded the room. They were trying to un-confuse the issue. It was twenty layers deep. "See you when we get back." "Ok. Have fun." I meant it but I didn't smile. I was going to skeeve on some twitter bitches later. Get them to take off their pants. Have to find some from Europe, I prefered that. This one girl sent me a picture of—


It wasn't funny anymore. It was people using each other. And loneliness, and people remedying that temporarily with skeeve-fucks. I couldn't have any part of it so I jumped ship. And there were sharks, even way out in the middle of the ocean. They were used to flesh. They had an instinct about it. Knew just when to turn and just when to insert a flare. I meant a bubble. It came out as a parenthesee,

i meant a bubble

it came out as a parenthesee

there was a barbed-wire cat, in my kitchen

solo weeds of a garden, hat


nut bagger "edited me down"

I couldn't take it

I ejected

came..................and connected myself with the tweener pieces, motors and rubber bands, little camshafts and gearnuts, the keyboard got warm, Canada was overrun, we bought a house there, tirades doubled, elephants roared, twelve was five, twenty was twenty-one, she sang a birthday, song filled my bathroom and I missed the whale.

Dammit, I missed the whale.

Do you hate me?

Do you wish you had something to write about? Do you think I am an idiot? Do you pity me? Think you have it better, think I am sick, lost, beyond it, catered-to, forgot, broke, mistaken, pointless? Think I think the same? Or are you filled with love? I'm sure you are. Filled with love, brimming with it, exploding with it. In everything you do, exuding it, sure. At work. At the grocery store. In traffic. You're brimming with it, all the time. Rub off on me. Show me your perfection. Interview me for TIME. Ask me what I hate. Ask me to pull a rabbit. Let my picture be next to Grace Gladys Gibbons and we'll reach across the frame and share some chromosomes. Grace Gibbons doesn't have a problem with publicity. Grace Gibbons is ok with people reading her stuff. Grace Gibbons is a natural! She doesn't fear interpretation, she's a goddess when it comes to style! Grace Gibbons gives better readings: her voice is better. Grace Gibbons has that 1940s style. Grace Gibbons has pretty hair. Grace Gibbons creates a mood. Grace Gibbons doesn't fuck up her words. Grace Gibbons is a girl. Grace Gibbons is a girl.

Grace Gibbons is a girl.

That's what they want. They wanted a girl. They always want the fucking girls. The ones with pussy and cute legs and tight little ass-candy. They want a poet to read with tits. To be able to imagine fucking her while they literate. It's literate, motherfucker! Like the past participle of liter-eat. They want a female to jerk off to while they literate. To be a cute little poet. Not an awkward poet, the bad man, the sad man, etc. They don't want it scary. They don't want to push the boundaries. They want to keep their children safe—for their children to have boring lives. Is that what parenting is? Stay inside the box. Is it relevant? I don't know. Do I keep a bloodhound? Yes I do. For occasions like this? Of course. I am following your project with interest. How staid. I'm a cardboard motherfucker. Cold as a candle. One hundred words short of a happiness fried in wiggle-wax cumming. Make a video of you writing. Put it on the internet. See how many people watch that. Video the keyboard. Video the screen. Show them your backspace. Show them you, considering. Show them how many fingers you type with. Show them Grace Gibbons..show them your Grace Gibbons, show them what good she is, show them how she loves to love. Show them her middle name. Show them her thinking. Show them how she likes to fuck. Grace Gladys Gibbons likes to fuck. She likes penny-candy. She doesn't care how old you are, she'll rip your face off. Why are you obsessed with chimpanzees ripping people's faces off? Is it because you want to do it? Maybe. It might be. What is so fascinating about a cute little pet suddenly turning and ripping the face off its owner? I love that concept, I do. It's delightful to me. Maybe because we shouldn't keep pets. Or shouldn't consider ourselves masters of what we're not. Maybe it's the illusion of control. That we think we have chaos in the cage, but really: it's not in the cage. It's out, it's loose, just like in Jurassic Park. Broke my handbag into a sweat. Licked a fruity nickel. Spelled it nickle, though. Liked it better that way. Thought about a person like a beast. Imagined nicotine in their mouth. Lifted France (again)—found all my carpet lint. Gave up on publishing..forgot about it. Didn't think there was a basket for a nigger camel this side of the Sahara. Rotted my brain. Admitted I was useless. Found a usefulness in that. It was #sixwords this and #sixwords that and I thought it was all junk. Just because you have six words doesn't make it a #sixwords. No one understood. My grandpa had a woodshop; it's a wonder he never cut off any fingers. Someone slipped a cell phone under my door. I wonder who's calling? .......Mike Ewning. It's the Mike Ewning hotline. Mike Ewning is calling my nephew. They need to talk, urgently. I visualized some punctuation again. (Sorry.) Demonstrated the fullness of a brain. How full is a brain? Pretty full. How noisy is a brain? Pretty noisy. You all need to meditate. Fuck. Eight hours a day. Easy. Grace Gibbons never needed to meditate she'd just rip a motherfucker's face off. That was her way of doing it. Have you ever seen a monkey in makeup? Have you ever seen your own face, in a mirror, right before you die. Is that line of thinking real for you? To kill yourself? Maybe. Maybe you could make it real. Maybe if just the right life circumstances and brain chemistry came together, you'd decide on the bathtub, too. I have a plan. I have active suicidal thoughts, about once a day. I'm just keeping myself around the best I can, hoping on hope that it gets better. Writing myself into a storm. In a minute I'm going to make macaroni and cheese and forgo drinking alcohol, maybe take a bath, though. You should put this book down, now. It's not going to get any better. It's going to be thoughts about this and thoughts about that and a wee bit of Grace Gladys Gibbons. This was never designed to be a book to read. You must be from the future. Hello, I'm from the past. Nice to meet you. Nice to meet you as well. Too bad we can't swap spit. We might have been in love. Might have been best friends. I knew it was like that in the future, I knew it. And maybe I was never going to write a 'normal' book again, maybe it was more of this from here on out. Write what needs to be written. Think big, then think bigger. Be the one.

Suddenly my volume switched. My ears hear things differently now. The gaps were inserted crosswise, perpendicular to the development of change. There was a screen-viewing, and they worked to get the proportion right, so that all the cheese-eaters and wine-tasters could see the slideshow and not have their brains get messed-up. A screen rolled down. My friend was eating cheese and we had come here for the free wine so she was drinking that. On the screen were images from a grocery store. All the people you'd find in a grocery store. From people who worked there to people who shopped there to people who begged for money out front. These images rolled by. And it was flash! And flash! Flash! There's three girls who work there, cleaning up a spill. And flash! There's a guy rearranging a stack of peas. Flash! There's a super-hot 17-year-old pushing a cart with her friend. And there's a sad mom, pushing her baby in a stroller. There's a new mom, with a tiny infant! And the mom is calling her husband, to ask his advice on what to get, and she looks out of place, and overdone, and in over her head with the baby. And there's string cheese, and there's gouda, and there's babybel. It's something I like about the grocery store—with Tanya on my arm slurping wine and me watching the slides—it's that the grocery store has everything. It's not so full of dads, but other than that, it's a slice of people I like to see. I love that sad mom pushing the stroller, love her face, love her cheeks, love the overalls she's wearing. Love that little infant, knowing nothing about where he is, in a canopy of a carrier on his mom's cart. He is doing everything he knows how—he is shitting and screaming. I love that hot 17-year-old (you know I do) but I love her more than that, I love that she has to live her life in spite of her hotness, that in spite of that she is the same as the rest of us, that that is just something unusual about her that she has to live with. I love that she's picking out food with her friend. They'll cook together—maybe it'll be the first time they make pizza. It's a child, having a growing-up experience. And I love those babybels, they've got their special life to live, wrapped in wax, waiting for someone to pull the string and eat them. I chose to forget you. I chose not to write you. Some of you. I refrained from alcohol and I refrained from putting you in my book, and in that sense, you do not exist. When I look back, I'll simply not remember you, and it will be perfect.

Did you start to believe what I was saying back there? I started to believe it myself. I never read Houellebecq I just listened to a bunch of interviews. I'm from the old-school view of recycling. Sue me if I had a genius solution to a simple problem of waste. This macaroni and cheese is really good. Do you think I can make this more mundane? I'll try. When you insult the person you're interviewing. Teenager in a bathrobe. I just went to the window out the back door and the neighbors are outside in their swimsuits. I thought about jerking off to the little girl but there was a screen covering the window. She was talking on the phone. Busy social life. I would fuck either the mom or the daughter. Either-or. Stop making 'good art'. Stop trying to lull me into guardianship. Stop making fun of chitlins. I ate Velveeta^®^. Someone asked me if I had 'serious motivation' for writing and I said there's this semi-nude teenager in the next yard help me get this screen off the damn window. Stop trying to be controversial and get your dick out. There you go, man. Does it bother you that my mother is a minister? No, because in the future everyone's an atheist. She is my good friend, this little one, I set it up with waves and hellos and little mini-bike-rides around the neighborhood. Call the cops on me. She interests me. I want to be her friend. I am going to debate you. You are on my list. My list is short. At the top it says: "Make statements." Then somewhere down the way it says to debate you. I've had practice; met some of your type before on an island. Had your baby tongue wrapped in a danger-lion and tripped on a twice-face. I'm listening to you now, your b-sides. You're splitting hairs, inserting fluttery runs and AltaVista. Deep into it now, deep into your insight. Took the tube to London-town, see-sawed a tiny vagina with an icepick, caught your intentions. Nibbled a breast, guinea-pig bitemarks, dumb quotes and the extra flesh dropped into the recycling. Yard waste, actually, separate from the compost. We used to masturbate on the altar in church, me and the youth group, the girls and the guys both, we'd wait till no one was in the sanctuary, then we'd photograph each other getting off up there close to god. I don't know if some of the girls actually got off but I know this one girl did, because it was realistically photographed in Technicolor KodaChrome with distribution by LionsGate™. We knew she came because Tom Cruise was dressed in earshadow swinging from a baboon. It was cut-5! but it wasn't good art. She was in the church. She jammed her fingers inside her cunt. Then she fingerbanged herself up there, it almost looked like it would hurt, and my mother was in the next room but we had our camera looming. A shot of this! A snap of that. We were just being stupid, but we never got caught. Did a couple more things on youth group retreats that might surprise but it's mostly the masturbating on the altar that I wanted to tell you about. When I was up there I thought of god and tried to masturbate to god. I thought it would be a good way to worship. To masturbate to the glory of god. We had a youth pastor who introduced us to that idea, she was a riot. The skin fell off the bones. Call it performance art. We had a smacking time. And it was something we could do together, without fucking, which our parents definitely encouraged us not to do. So we improvised. I still have those pictures. Still have the photo negatives, scanned onto my computer. Never show them to anybody, but they're there. I think you're just a sad old man. I think there's pain in your face. I can see time on your forehead. I don't think you seek controversy at all, I think you just don't know what you're saying, Mr. I think you backed into your reputation, think it fell upon you like a felt hat in a thrift store. I think your best quotes are misunderstandings. I don't take you seriously at all, Mr., I take you as just another one of us who stumbled on a goldmine. I hope I remember this for myself. I hope I stay in touch and be a small-time programmer, making games in Pascal until I die. It's like being with giraffe, is what it is. You're pregnant with a giraffe. What do you think people are going to talk about? So be with child, Mr. 1. Be with your gangling child. You are with giraffe. Someone's paying me 10¢ a phrase to put various phrases in here and "with giraffe" was one them. I'm 10¢ richer. I'm not even sure what misogyny means. I think it's a term for a small pig with a rumpled nose. Charisma I picked up at a bar one time after she had turned fat. We had sex and she said she thought it was one of our best times but I disagreed. That showed me how differently two partners can perceive sex. I had to clean up some of my subordinate clauses after that. I got my brain into some real smooth carpet-fucking headspace. Slid down to the floor. She had this pouch of skin above her triangle and it turned me off. But she must have still liked my long dick (even though it wasn't wide enough). She always liked my long dick, but she reminded me several times that her other friend had a dick that was this wide (she showed me). I was happy for her and her friend. As long as she let me fuck her I didn't care how wide her friend's dick was. When we took those masturbation pics we took them from the back. The person would be facing god and the photographer would be behind them, toward the audience, but up close—have you been to church? So they weren't full-frontally nude. They were from the back. And not everybody did one. It made an impact on me, though, to have Julianne playing with herself while we at least got to see from the back. She didn't take her pants off. You have to sell yourself out to write a book. You can't end up still knowing anyone you used to know. A hundred words on Julianne here, a hundred words on Christine there. Next thing you know you're having a frat party, and no one's reading anything. That was my impression. The process, simplified. Laid, getting. There, being. Sex, having. You, photographing. You, watching. Secrets, sharing. Form, inventing. Tradition, tweaking. Beat, playing. Music. I didn't even know I was writing. Oh my gosh! I didn't even know I was writing! Christine was ok in school. I only stop when my word count is a palindrome. 29192. I was ok in school. We all dressed up as monsters. I thought the adult versions of us were all monsters. Anna became a parenting Nazi, like so many others. Charisma and I became drug fiends. Julianne went insane, which I guess applies to me too. Two edits. A tiny outrage. Save your disgust. Give me a single word to describe your emotions right now. Circle it on this chart. If you don't find your word, write it in. Notice how we're focusing on physical sensations. Find what you feel in your body. Did you see the adjustment paradigming that I made previously? They were off writing instead of gumming on twitter. It's all off-chord, barely strumming. I made the right choice to stay home. I had to read. I had to read my friends. Turn the page. Turn the page again, dammit. There. We're back. Did you feel calcium in your teeth? A wide-enough nosepiece for your glasses? I think the old-fashioned idea of loathing, I couldn't hold onto anymore. It didn't fit—like a bell. A hard hat, bent up for brunch. Those couples you can always tell they just fucked before they got to the restaurant. Dumb couples, couples who all they have is fucking and reading the newspaper. Drinking coffee together after they fuck. Being beautiful. What a waste of time. Give me someone who bites back. Give me someone who doesn't have time for me because she's busy living her life. I'd hardly have time for anyone. I have things to do. She left her hallucinating maxi pad under the fence for me to find and taste, to think of her, and I thought of her when I did. There were several members of the AA community who disapproved of our relationship, and I listened to their views with interest. Please tell me what irks you about what I'm doing. I need your point of view in order to become a better person. I can't make these decisions by myself. Give me your advice. They used blue dye in the commercials. Same thing for diaper commercials. We were saved the trauma of red dye. Thank you so much, you have changed my life. I suspect you of lying. You said you like the book? I don't believe you. I think you have some ulterior motive. I think you changed your mind. I wonder if I can escape my psychology. I tend to think I can. And there will be nothing of me left over, just blurry vision and manipulation. I need to stop imagining that other people are thinking. I always assume that people have a plan, because I have a plan. So I think other people are the same way. But almost all the time I'm wrong: usually it doesn't mean anything, no one means anything, no one had any intentions, etc. I think you're just making up ways for me to hate you. My TMJ is acting up. Flaring, you might say. If you were taking quetiapine. Don't eat it with grapefruits. But my TMJ comes from Lexapro. And the fact that I tried to bite my tongue off last fall. I didn't get very far—the tongue is very hard. I think I can beat the critics. When I bit down, I bit on the left side of my mouth and so it's the right side of my mouth that has TMJ now. I think the bite-down disjarred it. Now my jaw is in pieces. I used to collect objects. I used to carry them with me. That was when I was optimistic. But I lost my rag somewhere after 13, red and squoze-out, white Keds, skipping in cut-off jeans. Did you ever drive my HotWheels? I don't give a fuck about your trade name; I'll spell it however I want. That's the most illegal thing about a text these days: it's not what you say, it's whether you spell the trade names right. You had to get a certain amount going in your brain: like one of those lottery balls. Winning ticket? 54-79-108-23-45-39-87. I think he wants to be seen as serious. A serious artist. I don't think he's a misogynist though, and I don't think he gives a shit about Islam or has any useful views on it. Do I think the European Enlightenment came into it? Of course I do. Mr. is a lot simpler than we give him credit for. I think he's a kid who's lost in an adult world of academic critics. The voice I heard this in is different than the voice you'll hear it in. I hear it with a certain pronunciation, you hear it with another. To you it's adult, to me it's adult. We hold this text between us, like a grille. 29992.

I was born in Tucson—you'd like it. We have these high-desert women who have extremely pale skin even though they live in the sun. My seriousness is going to kill me. Set delicate traps. Come back to your beginnings. Do what only you can do. Drink more blackberry soda.underline. Publish spontaneously. Find yourself not thinking about the rules. Fixate. Bloodthirst. Take a break. Drive to Tucson. Find one of those high-desert women. Kiss her wrist. Kiss her other wrist. Have tea. Give up caffeine, commander. It's the new alcohol. Do less in a day. Stop trying to be so nice. Give your friend some space. Punch a purple button. Ignore the calorie count. Steal some ice cream. Mail a letter. Burn down a very small tree. Take a pointless walk. Screw yourself in the morning. Wear a poncho. Cross-reference some index items. Count all the pins in your house. Tape yourself together. Buy an illegitimate pet. Seek out a sandstorm. Glue pictures to the wall. Make lists. Pretend that the water you're drinking is clean. Dress in orange. Make up a new color. Call it "Frank". Visualize it, in your head. Take it off the hook. Swirl it around. Call it on its lunch break. Forget about what happened. Perform an experiment. Call in a control group. Sit them on the couch. Make statements. Repeat yourself. Feel it. Feel it through and through. Change your M.O. Reinvent yourself in a foreign image. Remedy new words. Put on a production. Bare your fangs. Use the second person. Kiss your little fingers. Understand magic, for once. Believe you're dying. Blow bubbles in the bath. Clean your plate. Run over a yo-yo with your car. I was born in Tucson—you'd like it. We have these high-desert women there who were born with no sun in their eyes even though it's sunny there three hundred sixty days a year.

My fingernails are coming back. (I had ripped them.) This was a week and a half ago, while I was intuitively feeling out sentences in my head. I lost all control and started ripping. Little pieces on the floor. Now the whites are returning, little fratboy baseball caps. Some fratboy spit in my face once after I insulted his girlfriend. It was worth it. They were useless human beings, clinging to each other like red and blue in the bathroom, needing each other to stay alive. If they hadn't had each other in Target^®^ fucking joylessness, they wouldn't have had a thing. But these are just afraid people with no tools, they only frighten me in their current incarnation. Certain incarnations fit with certain incarnations. Certain others don't. And certain incarnations get to change in their lifetime—certain other incarnations don't. I was one of the ones who changed..and kept changing. I had three incarnations before Sunday. You were there for two of them. I asked you to imagine you could see me, and there was a color/wind, a giant sail, an engine—we snogged under a power fan! Meals were served, the washing machine continued running, a giant 18-wheeler ran by in the front yard. Somebody tried to push the limits; got their face sat on. Spelled "glue" with three "z"s. Ate a triangle. Punched a lifeguard in the fraternity. Used zero tools and came up with the same result; it was amazing. I had never seen a kid operate a kite quite like that before. He had it singing, but broke the rope, and the kite never sat still again. I was worried for the sky. There were dolphins underwater—they held together the surface of the ocean. They were like our glue. Without them, everything would have cracked. All he wanted was a handjob. That's not true. He wanted to fuck that virgin. All he got was a handjob. And told us all about it. Poor girl, she thought she was talking to a Hollywood producer. Nothing held her together. She was coming untied the day I met her, confessed it all to me in the hamburger store. Why did I mention hamburger? Is it a symbol? What is its significance? Was she like hamburger, torn down and discombobulated? Taken to the slaughter. Some countries eat dolphin. Some countries eat whale. Some countries torture humans. Some countries don't recycle. Some countries are more educated. Some countries take more baths. (Take more baths.)

Take more baths..underline

Some countries are less punctuated.

Some countries don't allow hair.

Some countries are less ornamental. That's what I meant before. Some countries carry less around on their heads. Some countries still have bookstores. Some countries need to take a chill pill. Some countries have no right. Some countries need to have their secrets revealed. Some countries are working on projects. Some countries are more alike. Some countries have more fun. Some countries like to repeat themselves. Some countries consist of patterns. Some countries are more rhetorical. Some countries have style.

Some countries refuse to give interviews.

Paulie isn't one of those countries.

The 'This is Paulie' interview consisted of sixteen questions, administered through email, executed serially, between Paulie Elliott and Matthew Temple, two alter egos of, respectively, Sarah E. Melville and Inhaesio Zha. These alter egos met without the application of force—at their own wills—and they were under no duress at any time. The interview was witnessed by various internet applications and machinery, inception was in twitter, binding legal agreement to use said interview in this book was made, also in email, post-interview, by Matthew Temple, Paulie, and Sarah. Inhaesio Zha pretended he didn't exist throughout this entire process, and Sarah may have pretended to do the same. The 'This is Paulie' interview will live on, as an example of Muppets Doing Business. And MDBA certificates will be given to members of this audience upon close of this show. Rights and regulations for this text will revert to Inhaesio Zha upon close of this paragraph, but no one will care because in the future everyone just copies whatever they want anyway. There will be no jobs, it will be like Star Trek, and everything will finally make sense. Ha ha ha. I am full of lip pimples. I need to clean out my mailbox. IZZE^®^ Sparkling Cider is the shit.

I am the identified patient. That means that everything that's wrong, is wrong with me. If anyone has anything to worry about, in terms of anyone's behavior, we worry about mine. There's something wrong with you, Matthew; I'm worried about you, Matthew. I'm the one who takes it on the shoulders. When I'm not around, people have to carry their own shit. When I'm around, I carry it. I am the identified patient. I write short fiction that doesn't mean anything. I write fanfic and slash. I post to the usual boards and get critiques from people who write like me anyway. I tweet a lot. I post links to my stories. I promote to other writers. We scratch each other's backs. When you email me, I always email you back because I want you to always email me back. If you're having a bad day, I comment on one of your stories to make it better. I am the identified patient. One of us used to have a job. Now we're both writers. You're afraid you will never write a novel. I'm afraid I will never be read. You're working on your literary magazine, carving a subgenre out of a subgenre. Someone's trying to get published. A publisher is putting forth the best she can achieve. Some are focused on genres. Some are—knee surgery. I think I found a difference. I don't think they knew about 'flat words' before. A flat word is where—I don't know I just made that up. You read the comments on my blog and now we're going to get together once I finish my book. I can't go out before I finish it. I have to write the same number of words every day. I have to focus. I have to sleep the rest of the time. I have to save my mind—for what? To talk about saving my mind. To breathe to life Grace Gladys Gibbons, to reiterate her as often as I'd like. To take my story to a hair salon and get some color done. Maybe trim off a few whippets. This is the story about the story about— And a pear. I'm just kidding I didn't just make that up. This whole story is just kidding. What story? There isn't even a story. There is talking about talking and nonsense. I think you wanted that. I think you were tired of reading about pears. I think for a minute you needed a story without any pears, but with bear pussy and trout, Gladys Gibbonses and Kirsten Dunst pity-fucking a glass of milk. Kirsten Dunst pity-fucks a hand-grenade. Kirsten Dunst pity-fucks seventeen woodpeckers in retrograde. Kirsten Dunst pity-fucks her own IMDB page and every film on it. Kirsten Dunst pity-fucks the quality control checker for the brand of water that I drink. Kirsten Dunst pity fucks the very first monologue she had to give to become famous. Kirsten Dunst pity-fucks the early parts she had to play. Kirsten Dunst pity fucks a Japanese whale and then everyone stops killing whales and dolphins! Can we please stop killing whales and dolphins!!? Whales and dolphins are amazing. I lost my train of thought but can we please stop killing whales and dolphins!!? Please. For me. No: for Paulie. That would be great. Yeah.. I would feel so much better if people would just stop killing whales and dolphins. Imagine how many people would feel so much better if we would just stop killing whales and dolphins. No rhetoric—seriously. Would you please stop killing whales and dolphins. That's all I ask. You don't even have to give Paulie a handjob. Just stop killing whales and dolphins. You don't even have to like Grace Gibbons—she won't care. Just stop killing whales and dolphins. You know, some of us tree-hugging types have really thought things through. It isn't all just innocence—serious thinkers come to these conclusions. I'm still going to skeeve on all your daughters, though, so don't think that. Until a sixteen-year-old is sexually an adult I'll be cascading for that one. Think of all the fun we could have. And until—I was going to list all the causes I will be cascading for but I decided not to. Better keep it focused. Grace Gladys Gibbons has more causes she's into. Grace Gladys Gibbons wants to legalize all drugs. Grace Gladys Gibbons wants to see no more civil lawsuits. Grace Gladys Gibbons wants to see—! (Kirsten Dunst pity-fuck a walnut.) I think maybe I started the beginning too late, in this book. I think maybe I should have started the beginning..earlier. I woke up thinking like this book this morning, my brain had adjusted to the style of this monologue and now I just think this way. So no this wasn't my natural style of thinking or talking. But it may have become so now. Hopefully not permanently. I'm typing this all with four fingers. See? You don't have to know how to type to be a novelist. Oh, wait—this isn't a novel. How was it not possible for me to know, in high school, what I know now? What was wrong with me that I couldn't figure things out back then? Maybe I can impart something to someone in high school somewhere so that they can start having fun earlier. That's what I really want in my life: to have fun earlier. Get into things sooner. Be with someone more. To use more italics, god damnit. =) Why couldn't I have learned not to worry. Why couldn't I have learned to spend it all right now. To go for broke. To not hold back. To kiss more. To write more. To call my friends more. And I did a lot of those things—I did a lot of those things. But to do more. To really max it out, as Walden would have said. I spend my life thinking the other person is hating me. I don't trust anyone in my family anymore. Are you guys now thinking that I'm some kind of subservient idiot who makes no sense? I don't want to leave my room. What age group is this book aimed at? I need to get my psychology straight, so I can proceed in life. I wish I could impart some wisdom to myself—let's start with that. But that doesn't even seem possible. I'm stuck in the same traps, stepping in the same holes. Should I be as open as I am? Should I hold back? Can I really make it through this life? I'm doing this because this is the only way I know to change my life. I can't stay stuck like this. I need to transform. Some creatures, if they don't change, they die. I'm one of those. It's hard for me to believe that you would want to hang out with me. I guess I have low self-esteem. What do you do for that? I've tried to read about it. I just googled "where does self hatred come from". There it was down in the comments, way below the fold: at 10:47am on July 18, 2009, gobbies said: "I think a lot of our self-hatred comes from survivor guilt." And that was it. I had so much survivor guilt with the thing with Rebecca. Is that where it came from for me? Did this internet comment just save my life? Am I surviving the trauma of my father? Did Rebecca abuse me, in a way, by dying? Would the strings STOP PLAYING!!???

Please, strings, stop playing.

She turned twenty-one in my bathroom. She turned twenty-one. I knew that I was ending, one moment at a time. Fighting my way through the club, looking for the back wall. For the stairwell. For the way out. The door: opening. Get that fresh air. Uuuhhhhh. A breath. Breathe in. The door was open. Rebecca was behind me, back there, dancing. We had all done ecstasy. There was still more in the trunk of my car. My experience got layered upon layered upon layered, and I was referring to myself in the sixth person now. There had to be a way to the beginning. Untie these knots. There had to be a way to unclasp my throat, let me speak again, let me roll down the hill. I didn't know what I was writing anymore, the writing knew me. Was my hate from survivor guilt? I hate that I'm alive. I hate that I'm still here when she isn't. I hate that I survived. I feel like there's no reason, no good reason, why I'm alive and she's not. She turned twenty-one in my bathroom. I wish that she was alive. I wish that she had gotten the chance to live, to see this life, to breathe, to joy, to fall in love again, with anyone! I don't even care if she was with me, I just want her to get a chance to love! I wish she had had that, and why do some die young when some of us live on, miserably. And what an insult it is to her for me to live miserably! I, who have the time! I, who am alive! Is it as simple as that?: I hate myself because I'm alive..while she's not? I hate myself for being lucky, for not being bulimic and destroying my body? I hate myself for not accidentally dying from some drug we tried as kids?! There's no reason I shouldn't have died! There's no reason she should have. It's just: the way it is. And now I hate myself in every moment, hate myself when someone invites me to the garden store, so much that I think they can't enjoy my company. I let them down by not going. I wish I felt ok to go! But I can't, I can't allow myself to open up to the chance that they hate me, that they really don't want me there. Which is all because I self-hate, because I don't want me there. Some kind of nonsense book you have here! When you've got your author confessing to you his deepest crying fears, his darkest uselessness. Grace Gladys Gibbons can't save me now. She sits inert. Her fun is nowhere to be found. Kirsten Dunst and a chorus of whales and dolphins might pity me, if they had a heart. Among them, a special dolphin with a glittery crown would conduct my misery in swells of the ocean. And I miss Rebecca, and I will always miss her, as she is frozen as a child in my mind, and I reach out to touch her and she is not there, but I still try, and I probably always will, for better or for worse, I miss you. And I miss the me who was when I was with you, a me who wasn't worried about death, who made it count, who was amazing to be around, who loved to be around himself. What about him? Can I find him somewhere, along this highway? Is he still intact? Can I breathe him back together? Do you believe in miracles? Was that internet comment I happened upon, a miracle? Did it find me? Someone suggesting survivor guilt is the reason for self-hate. Did I need to read that? Can my little nephew remind me what it is to be a child, with his Juice Dog™ which all it is is a little cup with the cover looking like a dog that he drinks his juice out of. It doesn't need to have its praises sung. It doesn't have a thousand worshippers calling its name. It's just a little cup. With juice in it. That services a two-year-old. Are you mad at me? You seem mad. Maybe you're not mad at me but you seem mad. I live in fear of that. The Adult who is mad at me. There's only one place that could have come from. And I love my parents, but god damn. God damn the yelling. God damn the hitting. God damn I wonder why I don't wanna have kids. I don't want to repeat that! I don't. What is wrong with that. The buck stops here. Unless someday I meet someone so beautiful that she can open me up to the idea. That would take..a real miracle. Imagine the person it would take to open me up to the idea of having kids. I've never met this person, maybe once, who was strong enough to convince me. And it isn't anyone's job to do so. I don't need to be convinced. It's no one's responsibility to convince me. That's just my own little stewage that I keep me. Keep me single, keep me childless, keep me safe. Keep me jerking off to teens who look like my last love, who make me miss her, who remind me that she is alive, here and there, in little bits of spirit, tiny actions, a momentary glance. My mold was formed with so many others present—who have died! I don't look at this world as though my friends are going to be around forever, as though I am. That's part of what it is to be thirty-four, that is not to be seventeen. And should we continue? Should we make up nonsense forever, bowing to the Juice Dog™ and toying with movie icons and syllable-izing off a whole bunch of trademarks that will be dead in a year? Should she turn twenty-one in my bathroom? Should she get another year? I would give her ten if I could arrange it, if I could bargain that from nonexistent gods. Paulie might have someone he'd like to bring back, too. And maybe you do, Dear Reader, maybe you find yourself a little lonely for someone who should be at your side. Maybe if Heathcliff had never died, none of us would be standing here, as we'd have nothing to mourn. If I could reincarnate Emily Brontë to be my girlfriend I might forget about Rebecca—she might be enough. Emily would cauterize her own wounds, hold a gun to my head if I asked her to, and generally be a righteous bitch. Emily Brontë would understand me. I think she wouldn't mind that I worked too much. And we would fuck like children. She would get a mad spanking from me. I would tear that pussy up. That solves all my problems: a reincarnated literary superhero has to fall madly in love with me, not want to have children, and be blazing in bed. And I would have to live up to the part: be impossibly brilliant, have a nerve of steel, and be everything that Emily Brontë would need. Do you think she'd like my books? Are they stark enough? Do they bleed? Am I Emily Brontë-worthy? Do you think I could live up to her harshness? Could I make her happy? (Well: could anybody make Emily Brontë happy?) Maybe happiness wasn't the thing to strive for. You know, I went to dinner with this woman in Brooklyn once. We ate Italian. I knew her from where she worked, and she liked me. We could have gotten together but I held her at a distance. She wasn't good enough for me. Am I missing out on something real because I hold everyone to the standard of Emily Brontë—some icon? Am I doing the same thing to myself: can't just be simple Matthew Temple because I think I need to be some icon? I don't know if I believe in being anything other than an icon. I think I need it, in my genes. To hold to an impossible standard. To not sleep with that woman from Brooklyn. To make ideals my friends. To rhetoricalize myself into oblivion. To keep this as my chaotic voice. I think I need to be alone, actually, think I need to yearn for teenagers who are just outside my reach. It reflects who I really am. I almost cut that out. I almost couldn't leave that in. But don't start editing now, kemosabe. There's not too much to say. I think the garden weeded itself, the altar-boy came in and dusted, the boy and girl who needed each other got a glimpse of what it would be like if one of them were truly not-here. The bestial males got a chance to think about skeeving on that perfect little girl in the supermarket—who is not yours, who doesn't have anything to do with you, who is not going home with you and your fantasies of her mean nothing. Have nothing to do with her. You're not looking at her. You're looking at yourself. You're all alone with that fantasy, all alone. Sadcore Norwegians got away with just a fantasy (she was lucky). And there was nothing wrong with being a parenthesee. Nothing wrong at all. A few words here and a few words there were tossed about like salt and walked upon like pepper. Fraudulent bee stings mitigated me. Eight-hundred characters of grace descended on a B string. The elephant got flustered—and she was never at fault. I was singing in a bald-faced pie/trampoline and the air conditioned sweat made me of summer windows. France got overturned. The triptogram set itself in orange and Bernice got on after that NASA firestorm. A small trout stood in for bear pussy (it was a character defect). And for me, Dear Reader, I turned in my twitter for the night, took my headphones off repeat, drank a sip of my bottled water, unwrapped the wax on a couple of Babybels, scratched my head, picked at a lip pimple, pecked at the keyboard a few more times, and looked at the top of the page. It said "Untitled document" "Saving.." Then it said "All changes saved".