I'm dying. Yes! But I don't care. So don't tell me I should try to do something about it because I WON'T. It would be cool to drive out to the middle of the desert and do something like that right? Something bad. You really really want to do something bad don't you? Are you afraid you won't be able to pay your rent? You think you're such an adult for paying your rent, don't you? Well here's some news for you. You're NOTHING. You hardly even deserve to be alive. No, you don't have to earn the right to live. You don't have to do anything at all. You know what? I don't believe in that stuff. You don't have to do something meaningful with your life for it to be "worth" living. And yet in SPITE of that you somehow fail to deserve anything, death even. It's almost impossible. You're a madman. Completely insane. But I've got some advice for you. I'm leaning in very close now. You know what? How about you get your morning bagel and stick it up your ass. That's right. And that car of yours? I don't care, leave it at the dumpster. Crash it. Boom! Yeah, man. Make that sound effect with your mouth. Childish? What's childish is your obsession with regressing to infantile states to distract you from the deep dissatisfaction you feel with your "adult" like. Come on. Kill yourself. What are you waiting for? You have everything you could ever want.
She's by the door and I have nowhere to go. Does she really think she has this much power over me? I'll show her. You know what, you stupid bitch? I've had enough. Hear that? I've had ENOUGH. Every single day you come home and mow my damn yard if you know what I mean. You're a metaphorical salad! I just see you griding the wench and hammering the computer like you have somwhere better to be, well guess what? YOU DON'T. From now on you're dusting MY keys and hitting MY strait. Don't like it? Then get OUT OF MY DAMN HOUSE. I don't care that you're miserable or that they'll lock you up. It's too late. We had this argument. Over and over and over again. And now it's my turn. Leave it or die.
This was my day so far and the sort of situation I found myself in as I was walking down the some number shaped little side street reflecting on my prior conversations. It's difficult to live this kind of lifestyle, I'm always thinking to myself. I think a lot too much, you know. I'm thinking I should think less. I mean, it's a sort of salad. Are you picking up what I'm putting down? Don't bother, I'll do it.
I was thinking of crossing the street but I saw a crystal display that caught my eye behind a little misshapen window so I walked into the store and the cashier gave me a sort of salute like I was a soldier. I refused to salute back and I said to him, "I'm not a soldier!" because it is true that I'm not but I don't think he was listening. I've never been in the army, although I was supposed to be, because my mother always wanted me to be something but I always told her "I'm not a solder, I can't be a soldier!" and she cried. I hated watching her cry but what's a man to do? His mother wants him to be a soldier like his father but I want to be a writer and she sees it as a sort of "homosexual pursuasion" even though I tell her over and over "I would never fuck another man!" She never did listen to me. "Be kind and shut up" I was always taught as a child and now there's a sort of way about me that reflects that, I suppose. Christ, it's already getting to be quite late. I'm not sure what I was staring at in the store but this man over there is looking at me strangely with a sort of evil look in his eye. Quite typical for people here to be plotting against me and engaging in these sorts of things. I wish I was more respected in this city but I suppose walking around with a bird is not the sort of activity that merits great respect. They spit on me and my beautiful bird both. It's sort of pathetic, really. Well, I'd best be off now. Birds and such to do, I suppose.
This was the sort of thing I said to my mother on a good day when she asked what I had been doing, now on a bad day when the sun was up and I was feeling rather down and ill I would say a completely different thing altogether. I would refuse to talk because there's a sort of ssss in silence like a snake. And I feel like a snake on this fine day because I have betrayed my best friend. You see, he was walking with his mother when I saw them passing by and a sort of tip of my hat to aknowledge that she was walking with my darling Sebastian. I never did like his mother, always rummaging about my stuff and the like but I had to put it aside for a moment because I saw a little fly on her nose. This fly was still at first and I thought it was a speck of dust of some sort but then it moved and I figured it must be something else. And then my suspicions were confirmed and I was sure it was a fly when it raised its horrid wings and began flapping them furiously like a large bird! And I hate flies because in grade school there was a kid named 'fly" and every day he took my lunch and hit me over the head with it and took the erasers off my pencils so that I couldn't fix my mistakes. So I took one look at this fly and smacked it right off her face, and what do you know, her head fell right off! Now my friend Sebastian was quite mad because I had left his old mother standing acephalous in the middle of the street (which must have been quite embarassing for him) without a moment's warning! Surely and quickly I apologized but it was already too late for he had fled the scene and now I feel so utterly terrible like there are a lot of cube-shaped stones in my intestines. This is why I am silent today, mother.
A woman feigning insanity wrote me a love letter today. It went like this: "Please stop harassing me, I am at my wits end" and she drew me a sweet picture at the bottom. Of course I immediately threw it away because I never read anything. Letters bother me quite a lot and words are hardly any better, in fact they're quite a lot worse. I just see them everywhere, letters and signs and pictures. I once had quite enough, 17 months ago, and resolved to kill myself when I got out of the way of all the words. But when I got home and held the gun in my hand (warming it up a bit - the metal was cold from laying in my closet for years) I thought I might write a note to my mother and sebastian. I held this pen in my hand (and my hand was shaking quite a bit) and I realized I could not write a letter because it would betray my escape from all these words, and in my last moment! So I scrawled a sort of senseness scribble and wailed in resignation because I could never communicate my intentions correctly. I meant to pick up the gun again and shoot myself but somehow when I looked again I couldn't find it, I must have misplaced it and I still don't know where it went. That is why I am alive to walk down this spindly little street on this awful sunny day.
I had to get out of the way of the sun quickly because I felt it might burn my skin off (and that would be quite the predicament because I have a job interview later today and I think coming in without my skin would lower my chances at success quite a lot) so I ducked under a strangely shaped rock of some sort that was making the whole street dark. It suddenly felt very cold and I was shivering so hard I thought I might start emitting electricity of some sort which was strange because the street had been very hot before. And I looked around (because I was quite confused) and realized that I had not stepped under a rock at all, but that what I thought was some kind of rock was really the top of a very large refrigerator. So I found myself at quite an impossible dilemma: to walk out and waste all the effort and energy I had expended to walk inside the refrigerator or stay there and freeze to death? I was certain I might die at any moment of exasperation as I pondered this seemingly unsolvable quandry, but just as I was going to give up and resign myself to fate I saw my answer: the insane woman who had written me a letter just the other day was walking by! She seemed to be crossing the refrigerator from the inside trying to get to the other side of the street (although I'm not sure I can really call it a side of a street it's just there are two streets with the same name running parallel to each other here... I really must write to the mayor to change this) and she was wearing a very frilly dress, I suppose in some strange effort to cover up her body shape, but she was walking so quickly and furiously it was making a big mess and obscuring all the air around her in a pink mist, so to speak. and this is not the sort of this I usually do at all but I slit her abdomen open and tore her skin right off in one pull. Quite a few people were staring so I had to apologize (very loudly, as the distance from the outside of the refrigerator is too far for a whisper or meek "sorry" to carry) and I was terribly ashamed to do this in front of all these passersby (I am not too good at welding knives) but it seemed a necessary evil. This way I could wrap my skin coat around myself and stay inside this refrigerator in the shade without being too cold.
No, I didn't get the job. They were asking me so many questions and I can't answer so many questions, they just swirl around in my head and get caught on leaves and other objects so I had to get out of there quickly and I'm sure they don't want me back now! I said to them, I said "goodbye" and I got up and left, and there's nothing wrong with that, because I will get a job!
This is how I told my mother I had not gotten the job I had been looking for earlier than day and she said to me "You call yourself a writer, then write!" but she has it all backwards, you see, because I am not a writer of words or books (you know how I can't stand those). I was never the creative type, always more into mechanics, tic-tacs, machines, those kinds of things. No, I write symbols, not record ideas! They don't have any type of meaning (besides the secrets of all existance and so on) but their shapes hold everything I care for in their curves and pools and other sorts of decorations and embellishments. I can't get a job! By God, I would rather die than work at something I don't care for! And it's rare to find anyone hiring amateur 'writers' so I simply sit in my home and create these shapes without any regard for my mother or death.
I am hungry today because my mother always makes me breakfast but apparently she is dead and I have not yet figured out what to eat. I suggested to the police that it might be sustainable or perhaps convientient (it would rid anyone of the burden of storing her) if I were to eat her body (I thought I might cook it up with some garlic, it is meat after all) but they just gave me a bizarre sort of look and asked me some questions. All kinds of puddle things and so on, I didn't really understand a word they said. I had to be very careful with what I said so I just made a salad of words I picked out of my hat (my head is in my hat) until they figured they wouldn't get anything out of me and let me go (they were quite nice in the end so they must have enjoyed the crutons and cheese I added to the salad -- but you can never trust these damn policemen, always out to get you and so on). You see, I couldn't say anything because I caused my mother to die, I killed her! I'm wracked with guilt here in my home staring at her empty bed with its yellow sheets that I always hated becasue the man who sold them to be was quite rude and inconsiderate and asked if I had a lighter for his cigarette to which I responded "No!" (even though I had a lighter) because I hate cigarettes. You see, I was watching the televisions which I almost never do because good things never come out of that box, it's all mind control and propaganda and electric waves and other vile things to that effect. And on the television there were some fake hospital patients talking about death and it put the subject on my mind, and when I went to sleep later that day I kissed my mother goodnight, or (as it may be more appropriate to say) killed her goodnight, with the thought on my mind of death. I think I must have tranferred death to her somehow through my thoughts (I always had these kinds of powers) and it spread rapidly through her body like a virus and attacked and killed every ounce of her because the next morning when I went to check on her (I wanted to know why she had not made my breakfast) I found her dead as a rat in manhattan, laying motionless on these saccharine yellow sheets.
I will surely go mad now, as my 14th hour without food approaches. I cannot eat for I feel it would be tantamout to forsaking my mother but this road is full of shops with assortments of mouth-watering objects and things and other sorts of items. I have always been of a rather thin constitution (although I wouldn't know that because I can't see in mirrors) so I figure it may be fitting to starve to death. I'm rummaging through my back and I figure I can't eat food but I can eat non-food objects so I dump out my bag and embark on a journey, a three course meal of nickels, pens, and petrolium jelly. The coins act as a pre-meal snack, something like chips flavored blood. Lovely. The pens are something else entirely, the plastic on the outside soft, slightly melted from hours in the warm sun, and the ink inside is sulfurous, nastly, something like coleslaw drenched in ginger tea. It may be disgusting but there's something to that in a meal. A meal without at least one thing truly revolting in it is like a hundred days of rain. It's fun for one or ten or twenty but by 50 you'll be crying for a single day of clouds, some variation! So, thus far, I was satisfied. And the petrolium jelly was scumptious, like a desert jelly of pulverized dinosaurs, oil and chicken. But I was feeling very nauseous because of the overwhelming variety of flavors I had consumed so I thought I might eat something I hoped would be flavorless. I dug around my bag and all I found was LSD so I ate that quickly, some quantity I no longer recall.
It started raining but I was feeling fine so I sat in the middle of the street and held my hand out and felt the rain drops drop onto it. But it wasn't my hand they were falling on, and I was confused. I saw them on my hand, and felt them on my hand, but they couldn't be there! I was suddenly very nausous, I though that whoever had created me had done so slightly wrong, so that my entire sensory map was shifted. When I touched my palm I felt something else, not my palm or another part of my hand or indeed my entire body but somewhere else completely, like I was not the shape I had perceived at all but maybe a giant rolling ball or a mishappen amalgam of flesh or simply a puddle of sludge. I began to hyperventilate and touched my skin obsessively,