Musette is 127 lbs. She gained two pounds in two days. She wants to get to 130, and then she’ll shoot for 135. All weight is good weight. Whatever we can give the baby is appreciated. Talk about Hostess snack cakes. Give me cheese sticks. Ice cream bars. Anything to appease the need. Sitting on stomachs, bladders, pushing against lungs, breaking the ribs.

The baby shower is this Sunday. The doctor’s office calls and tells us that we are in danger. We have to go in for stress tests now. The midwives are still in our future. As long as the baby is moving, we’re good. I wish that Musette wouldn’t work any longer, but the month is almost over.

The other Musette is going to be at the bookshop today because it’s Jake’s day off, and everybody else is out of town. She has a large mole on the left side of her chest which I’m not into but don’t look at all that often. My main concern is that it will run out onto my computer or the position that she’ll be holding for me while I’m gone. I’m not one to talk. Maybe if she didn’t have a distinctive spot somewhere, she wouldn’t be able to hold the position.

Musette is on the line telling me that she wants a jamba juice. I’m frowning. The baby needs it, she says, so I say fine and get in the car, driving up fourth, heading towards the mountains.

The girl behind the counter looks a little retarded. She has blonde hair. There’s another guy there who is always in a bad mood, especially when I tend to come in, right when they open, after I drop Musette off. It seriously eats into my writing time, but how much of that can I expect to maintain once the baby arrives? I’ve got to get used to it. At least for a while. I’m not going to say that I’m finished, but it’s going to be a challenge. I’m trying not to think about it. I keep telling myself that babies grow up. They become a lot more self-reliant. What I’d really like is a study, or if nothing else, an office. I’d even take a shed. Somewhere to dance around naked, scream, and punch the walls. Somewhere to fully immerse myself, getting away from my family to convene with my internet “friends”.

I don’t need to be here, man. I can run free as the wind. This, on my gut, is just fat. The more I run, the better. If you want to get rid of that baby, you’d better start running now too, and you’d better be thanking me for making you sit out in the hot car for minutes on end while I ignore you, staring off into the horizon like it’s the launching pad of my dreams and ambitions. I can just sit here all day. I can just be right here, because, as you can tell, the me doing this like this is the me that is pushing myself closer to that big shining wheel in the sky that rises me right up into my crown and puts me on the screen in someone else’s mouth, being sung to the crowd like I can escape the physical and live forever. I can sit on the couch being the battery of myself, getting worship from others because I am a diversion, a gollum, a bubbling hole in the ground. I am a spring of water giving life to my encirclers. I spread an acidic viewpoint, growing people into me. That’s why I don’t paste my picture to the back of my books which are liquidized into something that you can stare into to find yourself. I don’t want you growing your hair out or praying for the spots on your stomach to spread. The bramble of bush that I’ve got growing around my butthole: If you want it, you can have it. If you’ve already got it, then you’re getting the full experience. The great disconnect. The way that I’m the shadow, and have you ever seen hair on a shadow’s ass? I am me, and you are you, and I am the hero of this story. Follow along and we can see the heroes of others become our villains.


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