Every draft, a second subtweet. There’s nothing wrong with being yourself; it’s so beautiful. It’s the best thing to be. It’s all that we really care to see, our time being dragged from us in all directions. Don’t even get me started on the crystal generation. I’ve had about enough of their sensitive bullshit. I want to crush them all into asphalt. Show them what the world means to me.

I just want everyone to be safe, Increasing followership. To say the least, I want us all to have what we need. Don’t think that I’m opposed to it. I know that you view me as this spoiled tyrant, but I’ve got a heart. It might seem like I’m neglecting you, but I’ve got a lot on my plate. I’m a busy guy. I’m not for everyone, but if you’re young, red headed, and looking for a double major in success, then you should really get to start thinking that I’m cool.

Let’s keep going, okay? those of us who are left. We don’t have enough seconds to spare stopping to collect our thoughts. Pay attention to the exterior, or you’ll lose your head, grim, Stark, son of a bitch. We are the ones who made all of this happen. It oozes from me like sweat in the night when I dare to dream. Sure, there’s a degree of mystery to the inspiration process, but you’ve got to let your soul take over. Live your life like a literal daydream. A kind of spider sleepwalking over the screen. You fully have the power to not waste our time. So be naked. Be horny. Be my enchilada! Just give me one taste, a chunk, my empanada panda. I’ve got you honestly on my mind. Don’t try too hard. It’s the one thing I’ll tell you. What’s the point, if you eradicate yourself in the process?

We’re all assigned certain cases. We’re all here for our own reasons. This is what I’ve been writing towards this whole time. The little thing that is rattling on my nerves as I’m holding her down by her chest and feet, saying this is the nighttime, and I am the monster that comes when you cry.

She woke me from my dream which starred her mom. We were together living in a large house shared by many roommates who constantly interrupted her giving me oral sex. Isn’t that just the way it works with wet dreams though? There’s a lot of back and forth, just like sex, while your body works to get its gunk splooged. I don’t want to believe anymore that it’s just my own inhibition. It’s like I can’t write anymore or right now. I don’t know what the deal is. I was out and away for a while, but sometimes landing on that right word feels impossible, and you look at yourself and ask why you’re even doing this in the first place.

Got to get the words from phase one to two to three to four to everywhere we go we’ve got something going on. The spot on her cheek or should I say the spots, driving me forward. The person who interrupted us was one of my highschool friends. We were on the Lacrosse team together. Many of my highschool friends and I were on the team. I don’t know how that happened. They must have always seen me for the spot on my forehead now that I think about it. Including the funniest kid I had ever met, the one whose family died in the boat crash on the lake. I think that his physically challenged sister survived, but I had met his mom and dad and other sister, and I’m sitting here now hoping that my daughter doesn’t come out challenged. The only thing wrong with her at this point is one boxed ear. The one on the right side. Something that the plastics department should have no problem fixing. We’ve got an appointment with a nose, throat, and ear specialist the day before I see my new doctor, the one i will call primary care physician, pulling my pants down and asking, is this genital warts, hpv to be modest or at least halfway decent. I can’t go to the doctor that I used to. The secretary or receptionist or whatever is one of my parents’ good friends, and she still goes to church with them.


I try to be be the best me that I can be, and I think that I’m doing a fine job, but I also see room for improvement. It can take a little time developing the proper channels between us. There are missiles flying high, and the periphery is blasting with fireworks. War has been declared, and the student body is on the defensive. They are aware that the best defense is a good offense, and I’m just doing my part. The Lord says load the gun, I load the gun. I’ve gone over the weaponry of writing before, and I don’t intend to do so here right now, again. I’m killing my grandma, but it’s got to be done. I am the great and mighty bibles. A mystery until you know me. Slicked back jet black hair until it’s brown and long and gotta be tied behind the sunglasses that I’m wearing over my regular glasses, the bottoms of which droop like bags beneath the sunglasses, being a constant state of exhaustion in my constant drive around this city as I’m getting the job done, surviving the heat, doing what I can to make it out here.

This baby could come any day. That’s what I keep telling people. I felt her kick twice last night while we were lying in bed. Musette and I had been fighting about her name. I’m getting worried that my attitude will be the thing that keeps her from getting the name that she deserves. The name of my grandma. A royal girl. One who loves her dad. Someone who will be reading every word I’ve written. The subject of this, my latest book. Just a few more days now to find out if her foot is fixed to her face. Just a few more days until I get to stop working and clamp down on the novel. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. It would be good to have something in my hands to have and hold.

I’m getting on my own case too much. Not enough people know who I am for it to be any different. Presses, like programs, force you to sell yourself to them. War is coming all the time. I’ve got to get in shape. My body is out of control. I’ve really let myself go. We’re struggling to make weight. Local holidays are clogging up my arteries. The parades are ferrying vagrancy into all of the public bathrooms. Get me to the hospital now so that I can experience a real bout of paranoia.

Possible hpv. One spot on my dick. A little darker than flesh colored. Don’t worry, Google already knows. I’ve been researching it frantically. I mean, I’m stinking like crazy in the hospital, itchy. Not enough changes of underwear. White flakes popping up like mushroom patches. I almost picked the whole thing off a day before we had sex to make the baby come faster. I’d told Musette that I was worried, but she tried to convince me that it was just a mole or a skin tag. She’s got them on her body. Sometimes she even think that she has genital warts, but that’s crazy, right? she says. We both know now that it’s not. Mine just showed up all of a sudden, and all I can think is that it is from sharing that e-cigarette with Jamie-Beth.

I was lazy. I’ve always been so lazy.

There’s not a lot of traffic on Saturday, which makes the commute to work easy. The accountant isn’t in, which makes the work day easier. I am able to use my phone. Atticus is in hot water. He’s got no impulse control. Lil’ Belle of the Ball, if we want to call her that, shared a message that Jon Bon Cankles had shared with her informing her that Atticus is transphobic and that she really shouldn’t be involved with him. She sent him the message, and he responded to Cankles calling him a fucking cop, etc, a baby, wannabe, whatever. All in all an ugly tyrant. Needless to say that Bellesandra was furious. Pulled her piece from his magazine, our magazine for all that I’m included in it, just a sort of hapless bystander, thrown in the midst of it all, attracted to drama, and slow to judgments, the kind of guy who hangs around all and any so long as they’re not a personal pain in my neck.

Manwell  needs word from Atticus that he’s not a transphobe. I can’t be parading a transphobe before a room of gays, he says, not even knowing if he’s going to go anymore, the way that Bellesanra is so upset with him. He’s telling me that he could try a little human decency for once, and I’m just hoping that he goes so that he can talk about me to people like Mallory and maybe even read one of my pieces vicariously for me.

He wants to know why we can’t all be adults. Everybody is a freaking handful out here. I’m eating hot dogs on the fourth while Atticus is in his room flying a black flag. His mother and brother exist as roommates.  The midwife keeps using the word retarded which keeps freaking Musette out, and you know how I am, if that’s the price for a small baby, then pump her up please, God!

The light on the back of my eyes wrenches up my veins into the void. I am an acid bath of retching guts. Fire is bubbling up my throat. I am a lone Ronin on the field of future gold. This is the Wild West. We must honor our heritage. Trailblazer for a little fun in the sun. Two more days to the home stretch. Give me that five-dollar foot long on my five-dollar foot schlong. I need that sweet meat. Something good to eat. We all must take our medicine. We all must know when it’s time to call it a night. My mouth full with the pills that keep increasing. I’m not snorting anymore Flonase, I say, because I don’t need the steroids. It wrecks lungs, and don’t even get me started on Prilosec.

I’ve got a baby or two to care for. Maybe I’m destined to be the pervert father. Why else would The Lord bless me with a daughter?

I know nothing, Jon Snow. You’ve got to change gears so often. Keeping time as you watch the baby’s heartbeat slow with less kicks and shifts. Our next appointment is in just a couple of days, so no one is rushing to the emergency room. My wife’s mood has grown more negative. It’s like there is a dead and rotting thing inside of her. I’m in the car, driving her to her last day of work, wondering if it will be better for me to show as little emotion as possible, moving straight on to the next life moment, or if I should let it all out, catalyzing other emotional reactions within myself, finally crying in front of my wife. It’s hard to say if that’s even possible anymore. I didn’t cry when we gave our dog away, and I’ve never even met this baby.

Oops, my leg just fell asleep while I was masturbating to a Naomi Watts compilation. Don’t get @ me. This works for me. Call it my routine. I’d like to hold onto it, if that’s alright. I’m well aware that people change, but I’d like to remain like this for at least a little while longer.

It’s my prayer. Everything a prayer. Everything writing. Learning experiences all around.

You’re such a stylist, says Manny, and I’ll admit that I portray a certain swagger. I get my words from point a to point b in style. My mind looks good on the page.

Why don’t you just shut up, yells a woman who is holding her dog in the corner, sticking her ass out to me. She’s wearing a floral summer dress, and I do my best to ignore her as I step into the elevator.

You’ve got to understand, all of this goes into the case report. You’ve got to live it to solve it. Such things as inductions don’t come around every day, and we’re set to deliver one week early. It’s a night time check in. First step, ripen the cervix. Cervidil: that’s what it’s called. Doctor recommended, mother approved. They insert it into the vagina. The string hangs out like a tampon. It sits there for twelve hours. The doctors hope for us to get a little rest during this time.

The midwife is very sexy, and even though it is tough breaking the medical wall, I am able to implant some fantasy into the situation, her fingers deep in Musette’s pussy, pushing against the baby’s head, back and forth to the tune of Musette’s moaning.

It wasn’t always this easy though, I say, flipping to the future which finds me carrying a full pail of diapers down the hallway to the trash chute, and then flipping back to the the past which finds me carrying my USPS sealed manuscript out of my parents’ house.

They are trying, on the day that we are being induced, to get me to pick things out for a yard sale that they’re having.

Let us know what you want, they’re saying, so that we can sell the rest.

I’m agonizing over chess sets, dvds, my bad taste in music, etc.

I don’t know, I say. None of it matters. I have to give up my old life to move on to this next stage. I am thirty years old now. This is really happening.

I’m writing for ten minutes longer than I usually do this morning, and I don’t want to hear any complaints from the peanut gallery. Following the doctor’s orders, I had sex with my wife two times last night, and she used her breast pumps for the first time for one hour. I’m not supposed to tell anybody that. It’s a midwife trick. We’re trying to induce labor. In two days, we’re going in, and Musette will be induced. She is having contractions every five minutes. She can barely feel them. They’re less intense than period cramps. Those could continue for a couple of days, said our stress test technician, and our midwife’s motto is no pain, no gain.

My cousin is moving to Nevada. Henderson to be exact. I know that I haven’t mentioned him much if it all here, but he’s got a gambling problem. My dad has paid him 15,000 dollars in withheld wages. His girlfriend is a meth addict, and she pulled a gun on my cousin. She’d been over to my parents’ house not too long ago. My sister is going to be living there with her baby and two cats, not to mention her husband who wants to be in my position more than anything, sleeping in my old room, the one that was turned into a guest room. They’re asking what I want done with all of the books, the art, etc. I should hold an online auction. Make something of myself. Get this stuff into rightful hands. I’m not joking. Hit me up if you’re interested.

I’m about to be a parent, and I’m not even at my midlife crises. The exhaustion that I swim through every day frightens me. I’m trying not to let it. I want to experience it without fear or anger. I’m just trying to do my thing out here, and if you’re reading this, then you know what I’m talking about, because who would be reading this but my hardcore fans? There used to be more of them. There used to be more of us. Not many survived the trek. Distant voices echoing at the city entrance. It’s not like I haven’t tried. I’ve tucked you away in my secret room. I’ve done what I can to bring the world with me. To shed the limitations.

I’m a bloated corpse waddling from step to step. I’ve almost hit two hundred… Didn’t think this day would ever come. Sure had hoped that it wouldn’t, but I’ve got bigger fish to fry. My appearance is something that I can let go of now that I have embraced my shadow nature. We’ll find out tomorrow if the baby’s coming earlier than expected. We’ve got our bags packed. My father in law is coming over to black out our window. We’ve got to make sure that the air conditioner isn’t blowing on the bassinet. We’ll be lucky if she’s five pounds. I’m praying that her foot isn’t fixed to her face. I can feel her kicking, squirming, and rolling around.

Manwell, this is almost here and time to run with. You’re going to need to give me more time though, buddy. You see my face, right? You know that you’re looking at bibles, don’t you? I’m the reliable narrator. I always get the job done. I’m trying to get to the golden shores. I’ve got a voice fit for talking. Follow me into a new age. We’ll get there together, you, me, and beth. We don’t have to fight over her. I know that she hates me, no matter what you say. She thinks that I’m boring and weird. It’s not my problem. I carry an Irish princess in a box with me wherever I go. My assistant, therapist, and best friend all wrapped in one. It’s all I need, okay?

I’m in it for the long haul. We’ve got what it takes to get the job done, just breathe with me, baby. That’s the most important thing. The number one reason babies end up in the nursery. Undeveloped lungs. That’s why they’re keeping her inside of Musette. Gotta get those lungs. Fit her for air over amniotic fluid. It’s a whole new world out here. Baby bibles they’re calling it. Elle Nash knows what I’m talking about, but I don’t know what she’s talking about because I’m not the one with the body inside of me. It just looks like it. These two hundred pounds. I’m the great pretender. Following Celine’s advice. Walking that golden path to the amber waves of grain. We’re going to make it, buddy, every word a footstep, every page a mile.