You have to understand that I’m fake, I tell Jake, reading him of our astrologies. This surface level facade you see of me is so far removed from where I exist that you can count it little more than a distraction, an indicator for something more going on.


Another fixed sign, he stands the epitome of progression: black, gay, going to the gym every other day.


You can’t be controlled, I tell him, with the gemini well within earshot. Kate the Great.


One day you’ll walk in, and Ben will tell you to go home, she had told him earlier because he’s always coming in late. Can’t help himself. It is out of his control. It’s been like this for so long, but when he first started at the shop, he was able to make it on time. The passion is gone. He’s just waiting for someone to cut the string. He has searched for other jobs, but nothing has caught his fancy.


The building is going under, he tells me. If Ben doesn’t find a place in time, we’re just going to shut down.


Visions of pet food factories fill my mind. Body parts in plastic containers being shuffled to the fire from that time my father took me on tour of the medical waste facility.


My old manager had a backup plan for when he was preparing to have his baby. Quit the shop and move into film. Freelance work. He’s so likeable, says Jake. It’s not hard for him to find work.


It may not be doing exactly what he loves, but at least he’s moving in the right direction.


Little honeynut, would it be so bad for the snowstorm to wipe me right off the road? Doesn’t having a father only lead to further weakness. Take out your mom while we’re at it. Head in a ceiling fan, move it to the freezer. Something to keep you alive while the adoption papers make the rounds. A little David Copperfield. Giving you the first nudge off the cliff of a successful adulthood in a terrible life.


Read these words and weep, o baby retard. Your father never wanted you.


Your better off alone.


papa couldn’t cut it as a writer.


Couldn’t even spell.


Never went to college.


Met your mama on the way to class.


Two careers cut short.


A hanging chef in the closet.


It’s so common.


Writers and chefs, kissing companions.


Bobbing back and forth.


Bait for babies to latch onto and be dragged into another generation of horror.


Imagine if I was your dad


And Musette your mom


Remember that I’m fake in the face


Everytime I told you I love you, a lie


Something to relieve the pressure in my lungs


I can do better, I keep telling myself.


Make the connection.


Come through crisp, and solid. Complete.


Every day another chance.


Each one yet, a lost opportunity. A failure.


There’s nothing on my agenda. I’m being buried in the snow. The little seedling keeps growing. A Leo in the works.


It’s only going to get harder. Honey nut is a clear indication of that.


My nightmares are coming true.


A devil agent monitoring my every move. A tiny titan traipsing through my timeline like their life depends upon it. Thumbing through the gun I sit loading every day. Notifications sliding into place. The toddler tumbling over unlatched safety.


Ride my dog into another moment of freedom. Thank The Lord we cleared your throat. A little boy time.


Vaporizer wish list. Taint my testicles.

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