It’s such a stupid argument. There are things, however, that I should, at this point, let go of. I don’t want to be the dumb fuck wearing the pathetic grin in the photo coined “The look of a guy who just found out that he’s going to be famous.” That’s not me, and you know it. I haven’t been the best for you. My numbers reflect that. You’re not always aware of when I’m standing at the station waiting for a train, and that’s my failing in the form of currentivism, but I think that we’ve got an understanding going in regards to the image that is being presented here. At least give me that. I might not be the best writer in the world, but I’ve learned that that is not a thing. I’ve got my talents. A certain allure.
Red deli counter. Men at lunch.
I can’t deny it anymore: I look like my dad. My daughter doesn’t have any bruises on her, but my mind is a damaged hunk of meaty fruit that would like a scratch in the record of my honor.
She’s fine, I tell myself. It’s not what I did that keeps her hating lying on her back. I am not the reason that she cries all day and night. I am on the mission to pull her from non-existence, and here goes my dog, dying again.
Before you start, it wasn’t me. I know where you’re headed, and I’m gonna stop you right there. Think you can draw conclusions? Think you know how this ends? What is it, we wonder, that will finally tie my hands good and tight?
No. It’s his butt again. Wide open, gaping and leaking. Every time he squats, he has to sit down, leaving goopy sphincter kisses on the sidewalk.
Nothing’s coming out. Looks like there’s something that’s blocking him. He’s sleeping in the entryway, all day. His backside is covered in waste. He’s panting, limping, and he’s got an appointment in a little over an hour We have done everything to prevent something like this. Did we get too lazy? Did we neglect him because of the baby? Is he stressed? jealous? We can’t afford another surgery. This makes three times that he’s done this: the bikini top, the watch, and now whatever this is.
I’m the one who gives him a shower because I’m the one who gets Destiny 2: Destiny Revisited: The Return of Destiny. I don’t know how I’ll survive. I pre-registered for all of the expansions. A hundred dollars down. I’m crazy. The baby. All of my time. I need this though. I might go pro. I might be that good. I might lose myself to it. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke or vape. I’m losing followers, and I’m not gaining any. I need an escape. What better than something that I can’t stop doing?
So much has changed. This ugly, bald headed tyrant has got me in a headlock. The center of my universe is at stake. It’s very easy to slip away, but it’s necessary. Don’t miss out on great moments just because your drive is getting in the way. That is never what currentivism has been about. The baby though, I can see how this is a sequel. My god, and what a challenge it is. There is something constricting my sun, stealing my light. Look here, I reach out to you. I am not dead, I say. Away from the baby, away from work, away from my wife, away from writing. Into the game. This is the only reason that I’m here, because I have to download an update. It’s over four gigs long, so it’s taking forever. I need you now. My heart’s just not in it anymore. The hunger, the yearn, I’m looking for the authentic version–not the whole, striving to make something great, become famous, rich, and accepted. Don’t get me wrong: make me a job of this–just like this, and we’ll see where I stand, because the ship that I’m on is taking water, and it’s tough saying that it’s going to stay afloat. I’ve got things to do. I still haven’t completed the nightfall. It’s time sensitive. Nobody’s going to want to do it with me. My hands are tied. I am a prisoner. My ambitions, my lust, they are getting the better of me, and I am all the better for it. Chasing the dream. Twinning. Taking this family out one by one. Daughter after daughter. Fucking the mother. It has to be done. If I can’t be playing games then I want to be taking a bath with a tub full of in-law’s, bathing my warhead in the similar’s cyst crater.
Every time we pass the baby, we grow closer. I can deliver. She can receive. The thing had been living in my ball sack. It’s very lucky not to have gotten shot out into a tissue. One more wack would have done it. We would have never known this baby. It’s better sperm than your brother in law’s, who has herpes on his face, I tell her
I’m running yellows into red. There are cars on the other side of the intersection honking at me for not giving them an opportunity to turn left. I’m parking further into the space in front of me than I’ve ever parked before. The car is all sorts of askew. Am I actually not caring, or have I just lost the grip to fit in?