It’s brutal the brick wall that I’m finding myself running up against. Here I am, thinking that I’m smart, that I’ve outsmarted my family, in fact come upon the right and better way to live, when, smack, there is the monster on the other side of the flames, secretly shackling me to shadows.

I don’t care anymore. I’m back. I’ve got a second wind. Feeding the girl brings you back to the motherly paradise. Her eyes going all Gaga around the nipple. Her hair poking up every which way. Makes me proud to call this place parent central. This is now a mommy blog.

There is a lot of writing that I’ve got to get done. There is a lot of editing that I’ve got to get done as well. If you can get on my schedule, in fact, if you can tear open new hours into my day, then we’re going to get along just fine.

I am starship pilot alpha now. I am the head of currentivism. I am the currentivist.

Back in the ship, the hotel room.

Are my talents rotting? Have I wasted everything?

Am I the loser?

I have to keep myself in check. I have to stop hitting her. She doesn’t seem to mind at this point. Seems to like it, in fact; but that’s not the point.

I’m holding the nipple in her mouth. Silicone nipple. Drink bitch. She’s farting in my face. No shit. Constipation. It’s bringing me down. The lack of sleep is wrecking my mind. I’m setting up shop here on my mountaintop of adulthood. All she’s got is the noise that she’s making. Trying to wake the neighbors. She’s calling on the hoard. I’m holding my hand over her face. Try it. Just try it, bitch. I’ve got you. You are my property.

Look what you made me do, I’m saying. Palm slap, backhand. Look what you made me do. She doesn’t like it anymore. I have found the limits and crossed them. Knuckles against the cheekbones. Evidence on the screen of your face. They’ll take me down for this. Censorship of life in a cell somewhere to the south. Hell on Earth. A chance to not have to wake up for work. A chance to lie all day in bed, reading. A chance to connect with my bros, get away from my wife, get a break from all the screaming, crying, and name calling. Time to get my balls back. Time to remember what it means to be a man.

It’s time for me to work out. I’ve been eating better. I’m not quite a vegetarian, but I have been eating more fruit. A banana a day keeps the doctor away, and it does pretty well against depression as well. I’ve eaten two apples this week. I’ve got two pears in the fridge. Pears are my favorite fruit, but they’re not as convenient to eat as apples and bananas. Everything leaves behind either a core or a peel. Wouldn’t it be great to have the evidence destroyed. What do I care if people know that I’m healthier than I have been? Isn’t the healthiness, the happiness, the gas in my tank, the energy running through my blood enough a reward? Do I really have to get on here and tell everyone and the rest of the world what’s going on with my diet?

I still weight the same. A pound over one ninety. At least it’s not going up. I haven’t been living up to my word. Told the doctor that I’d take the dog on two walks a week. I canceled my upcoming appointment, skin tag having fallen off. Probably in the bed somewhere. That’s right, I said skin tag. Still looking to have sex with as many fans as I can get my hands on. That’s why it’s so painful when I see a number drop off of my follower count. In my dreams, I am a god, at least a king. A black crown upon my head. My kingdom here upon the mountain, throne room, harsh and intimidating. My chambers, here bring me your inquiries, here book me for your event at that bookstore in another state, here let’s see if we can make a form of me that will keep me from having to show you my face, to keep you from learning my real name. Kissing my sister on the temple steps. Congratulations siblings, you’re all doing so well in this world, and here I am, the loser, Glenn Gould, rattling out my Goldberg Sessions. Surpassing Horowitz, proving fluland’s innocence. The alliance strengthened. A curb to that meteoric ascent.

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Posted in Lit

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