I’m eating skittles in bed, like an asshole. So what. There’s a part of my being that’ll forever be disgusted by that fact and countless others like it, but my mind harbors a robust counterpoint to this and nearly every other thought I have, especially regarding topics in some way related to processed foods. I have no idea what that paragraph means.
This other part, the ‘yang’ to the ‘yin’ of good sense, of healthy choices, is enamored by any shiny, edible objects; orders of magnitude more so when they are being consumed while I’m enjoying quality television programming. Why would I tell you this? Because, I enticed you into visiting this site because we have something forbidden, horrible, and sexy in common. We have the same great-great grandmother. That’s right, I’m talking about your great-great-grandmother.
You may be taking this time to point out to yourself that technically, I’m not talking, I’m typing – and you are only reading this webpage, and you can’t hear any sounds except the endless screams and melodic throbs of the music available on this site. If you took the time to point that out to yourself, you just wasted 4 seconds that you WILL NEVER GET BACK AGAIN – because I speak out every word I type very clearly – AS I type, and sometimes, AFTER I type, and I use the negative space in between each of the words to inject the mono-dictation with sultry, rhythmic breathing noises, or I flick my nose with my thumb as I smirk at the web browser window.
So let’s not play this game, because I just licked nacho cheese off of my monitor, and not because I accidentally spilled some. It’s 1972, and I’m Burt Reynolds eating spaghetti in a white tuxedo.
Fucking hell I need to go to sleep. I’m just going to keep typing word salad. Things will work out.
I have this thing I used to do, while in public. I don’t know why. I suspect it was due to my obnoxious optimism, or a then desperate desire to be loved by a human that isn’t obligated to do so by blood relation. Ultimately it is more likely caused by my incessant longing for some horrendous but entertaining response. I’m not saying I’m not an asshole.
I’ll often tell complete strangers that I love them. Passively, as you would to a family member on the way out of the house or at the close of a phone call with your spouse, but in this case, said to my server, or a clerk at a grocery store.
Today, Labor Day, or “El Dia De Poloma y Ojos De Vacas Verde” for our Australian friends, for the first time in I don’t know how many years, a stranger said it back to me. Not just “I love you” – but:
Oh my God I love you too – let’s move away together.
Unfortunately, I am what some would refer to as a “heterosexual male”, and the person that spoke this reply is what some would refer to as “a female that has blossomed into womanhood and having physical attributes greater than or equal to the culturally and socially-accepted mean-value of highly attractive features in regards to the perception of the average heterosexual males of said culture and/or society.”, so it really caught me off guard, in the same way that securing employment at a job interview for a position you know you’re severely under-qualified for – because every other person applying for it died in a horrible train accident that morning – because they all decided to save the Earth by parking at the park-n-ride and taking the train, and you drove your SUV there instead and felt like a real jerk taking it to an interview for the marketing team of the new Prius, until you heard about the deaths of all those younger, smarter, Ivy-League, clean-cut Stepford babies right before the manager said
Congratulations, son! I guess in light of this grisly tragedy, we have no choice but to give you a chance.
Fuck I just want to sleep. My reply to her was a big smile accompanied by “Man, you’re a breath of fresh air”, then I left the store. She gave me a really perplexed look just before I turned away, like I forgot to do or say something. It was weird. On the way home, I realized I can’t say ‘I love you’ to strangers so carelessly anymore. She may have just been confused, thinking I would ask for her phone number or something similar, getting ready to hit me with the “Sorry I’m a lesbian/have a boyfriend/get away from me, nerd/get away from me, musician” but there is the slim chance, by Todd, that this person really, truly was madly in love with me.
I can’t go gallivanting around town toying with a person’s emoticons like a delicious Halloween confection. With great power comes great responsibility – so now, instead of a potentially fatal “I love you”, I’ll do the socially responsible equivalent – “I love you. But, I really don’t, I’m saying it to be clever, in the hopes that one day someone, maybe someone like you, will say ‘let’s be friends’, and then I’ll have a real friend again, not like Tenglar.” Tenglars’ world only exists because I believe it exists.
YES TENGLAR I FINALLY KNOW
P.S. – TO all of you once mesmerizing, cuddly, and I thought loving creatures in Unicornia – I trusted you – all of you – AND YOU NEVER TOLD ME. That one time Prince Ferzinzia died because of the nipplebird storm? Try to remember it TENGLAR. Remember it well you FUCK, because I do. I live the horror of that night every ‘waking’ second. It is in the waffles I eat, the air I breathe, the tires I rotate, the dogs I walk; even the waffles I eat. Deep, deep, deep inside my mind. I COULD HAVE SAVED HIM BY IMAGINING THE STORM BEING OVER, no danger of poisonous nipplebirds, and no destroyed Great Castle, and most importantly no DEAD Prince Ferzinzia. But NO.
No, all of you let me continue believing that this world, the one where I have alienated those closest to me in society because I don’t know I think my butt smells, isolated myself, and have become trapped in some Glurmea-forsaken abyss called “Baltimore” is the imagined world – a horrible nightmare in which the music I spend countless hours studying and writing every day never quite comes out the way I first hear it; merely an over-cooked custard of the recipe I tried to form. That’s always been a tough thing to accept about this place, and I rejected it as merely another reflection of another facet of yet another diamond in this fictional wasteland, a diamond made of poop. Poop I know NOW to be real.
This whole time – Instead of embracing all of you, dedicating expensive neuron activity and memory storage to your world – remembering Tenglar’s birthday for the past 412 years (eff you times ∞, Tenglar) organizing the G.C.O.E.P.M.T.W.T.B.H.T.S.A.L.M.W.T.C.D. – Great Choir of Emancipated Promiscuous Mermaids That Want to be Human Through Singing and Love-Making with the Choir Director (for those of you that never cared enough to see one of our shows or even become familiar with our programs, I suspect many of you that attended were doing so just so I’d keep believing in Unicornia but it’s too bad since we put on some killer awesome shows with lasers that can’t be reproduced and yeah Tenglar put it on the Unicornia Internet but it’s not the same you had to be there to catch the nuance of each performer) – instead of spending all of my energy on that ‘world’, I could have been here, attending to the now unthinkably depressing horror-show and montage of humiliation and shame that humanity has degenerated into in recent centuries.
I realize I cannot go back, and that terrifies me. It terrifies me that I have to live here every day now. That I can’t escape. I have no choice but to fix what I can, and accept the rest. And I want all of you in Unicornia to know that I hate you for it.