Third dead ATM in a row inside of the KFC, but it felt like it was only pretending to be dead. Pretending like a raccoon The same kind of pretending that synthesized drums do. Or like, when you draw something over graph paper and all you can focus on is how it’s just not a straight line.
The outside air also feels like it’s pretending. For example, there was no wind unless he thought about it, then suddenly the wind would blow around, push a plastic bag across the street, kind of making the bag really look like a mugger who was going to rob him near the end of this story.
He held hands with a person who smirks at jokes sometimes, smirking like the joke is not a joke but a prank that he doesn’t know about yet. It might be a small difference but it’s the kind of small difference that is really big when he thinks about it a few months from then, and he will feel like he was in some weird state of mind, like sleeping but not really sleeping, same feeling when you think you’re listening to someone warn you about someone else but then your brain tingles like a broken light and you go, “Huh?”
“I said look,” this person said, pointing toward two planes, one lower in altitude going North West, the other going South East, revealing the empty space between them, like a big X in the sky.
“That’s crazy,” he said.
“There are so many planes tonight.”
He thought he was thinking about that, about how many planes were in the sky, but then he realized that he wasn’t thinking about that at all but was actually thinking of something else, but he didn’t want to tell anyone what exactly he was thinking about. He was thinking about something off topic though, something about how all the houses kind of looked yellow but they weren’t really yellow, they were just like, kind of pale blue or green, but that’s not really what he was thinking about either. It’s hard to explain.
“What are you thinking about?” this person asked him.
He shrugged. “It feels like 2008,” he said.
He thought about how “How so,” just sounds like two random words put together. He imagined saying, “Howwwwwwww! Soooooooo?,” in the same groan he gave a toddler when it asked him what jogging meant, “That’s too complicated to explaiiiiiiiin! I don’t knowwwwwwww about anything at all! I don’t knowwwwwwww about anythiiiiiiing at all!”
“Wasn’t Sarah’s fun?” he asked.
“Yes, We should visit more often.”
“If we went over more then they probably wouldn’t like us as much.”
“Why would they not like us as much?”
It never occurred to him that there needed to be a reason to dislike someone. Reality doesn’t really seem to work in a cause and effect sort of way. It feels more like effect, effect, effect, effect, like windshield wipers.
It all reminded him of another time, something unrelated but basically the same.
He ducked under the crawl space, came out on the other side of a room where a group was circled around two shirtless teenagers bashing each other’s faces. There was a coffee table where everyone was doing lines of molly. Fighting on molly were two different things that felt the same, too careless to block any of the punches, always ended up bleeding more than you realized.
She walked over to him, some other guy following her, the same guy who would lean in closer to you before telling a joke, and then lean back before laughing like a Steve Martin joke. Ha ha, everything was just a big joke, like when you realized that your teachers lied and you never have to write in cursive. It just made you look like a dick! Ha ha!
"Are you guys next?" She asked him and things kind of fell into motion like they always do. Then sex, another thing that was actually the same thing. So was she. So was he. Like they were doppelgangers or something similarly unusual (uhm, twins?). Then he came. Then he left her room. Then he woke up and he was the same, only a little less different than everyone else but somehow that feeling of being different didn’t go away. Wow, weird.
“You’re weird,” this person told him now. “How are you not cold?”
“It’s cold but it feels warm,” he said.
He was right, it was cold out but it felt warm. Didn’t make any sense, kind of like the theme for this story, or kind of like, I don’t know.
want to make a poetry book about ladybugs
Here’s a story about a loser who dies. If you want me to get more specific then ok, that loser is me. I get hit by a fucking bus because life doesn’t give a shit about anything. That’s right. Life is just a constant mess of consequences and punishments. When I got a job, someone had to lose the exact same job, at the exact same place. I saw his name on the schedule. I saw him get less and less days as I replaced him. Then he was gone. Then I took a lot of drugs before coming to work. Then my coworkers all found out I abuse drugs. Then my older coworker who had issues in his life looked at my life and saw similarities. And he must have said to himself, “I’m going to give a shit,” because now whenever I work with him he tells me things that I need to do. Some things he tells me I should do is get my goddamn life in order, make friends who don’t use me for drugs or money, get in a healthy relationship, work to improve my life one day at a time, etc. Well, today he told me how there are bad people in this world and that those people don’t really know they are bad. Because most people who do hurtful things to other people lack self awareness. They are fairly dumb. Believe it or not, most sociopaths have low IQs. They’re not all Christian Bale. These people don’t realize that the world has repurcussions for what selfish things they want to do. It made me almost start to cry in front of him because I drank so much the day before, my coworker invited me to watch the Oscars with her but we both knew what would really happen if I came over her house but I did it anyway. After people hurt you they want to write you an apology letter. Guess what? AIDS won’t write you an apology letter after killing you. Because AIDS doesn’t give a shit about you. It understood it was going to kill you, and it did. The plan went into action, repercussions happened. Consequences went into motion. The world goes on and you go to kindergarden, and they make you apologize after punching the girl you liked in the face, giving her a bloody nose. Why did you do it? the teacher asked you. You had no clue because you’re a fucking toddler. Then she made you say sorry because she didn’t want to deal with your childish shit. You said sorry, the girl was still bleeding, and the teacher pretended that all is right with the world. There’s your fucking answer to everything. If you want to know why AIDS killed you, it’s because AIDS is morally equivalent to a five year old. The world is morally equivalent to a five year old. You can masturbate into a sock and throw the sock away but the cum will still swarm around for about an hour before it dies. It’s called life, you idiot.
this story was accepted in pop serial 5 which is not out yet enjoy
Like how you sometimes see kids collapse on the floor for no reason, I’ll sometimes pretend to be a dead person on the couch.
There is a hole against the cement wall in the warehouse I live in.
I see light from the other side of the hole.
One of my sixteen roommate tells me that he used to cut people but not anymore.
He says this with a very serious face.
Last week one of my roommates barged through the door drunk at 3AM and demanded I help him carry in a lounge chair from the neighbor’s trash.
I pet my cat but he walks away.
A good trick to make new friends is by trying to be extra nice.
The warehouse is cold, and big, and empty and I stand while I pee in the bathroom.
I think about things.
I think about holding your hand.
Maybe I have completely given up trying to get a job but I am not sure.
There is no lock on the front door.
Last night, a homeless man came inside and was sitting on the new lounge chair when I came home.
I stole adderall from one of my roommates but I think it’s okay because she steals things from me too.
A good trick to fall asleep is to pretend you’re really, really far away.
At Central, I text “I miss you,” while a homeless man asks me for money.
I don’t talk to my internet friends anymore.
I think to myself.
There is a party on Friday.
“Friday” seems like such a bizarre word.
I touch my hand with my other hand.
I buy Kleenex and crackers from a corner store while thinking, “It’s fun to pretend.”
I skip the fare at the subway to get home and get ticketed.
The cop asks me how dumb I am.
He keeps asking until I answer him.
A good trick to make new friends is moving to a big city.
Four months later, I still have not paid off the ticket.
I think there is a warrant out for my arrest.
I get a text from an old coworker.
It’s a picture of a bent stop sign.
The text says, “My dick is bent the same way.”
I text, “Nice.”
He responds, “Faggot.”