(What do you want to know about? The weeks of quiet? The changes of opinion? The new drugs? And where they come from? Some pussy? Or no pussy? Or why it is suddenly pussy? Is that it? Or is it the new towns? Or the new beds? Or the conversations I keep all to myself? Do you want to hear about the jokes that didn't work, the faces that don't show, or the corners that now make up my days? Well fuck you.)
I borrowed a lamp from my old roommate. We haven't talked in weeks. And the lamp has one working bulb, out of the three, that I use at night while writing. I gave up cigarettes for a lay a while back. But she doesn't know anymore so I'm back to smoking. I pulled a fan from my trunk. It has been hot as shit the last three days. So I use the fan to blow smoke out of my window. My new roommates don't know. Most nights I leave the living room without saying a word. I retreat to my room. Some nights I wrap a belt around my neck to make sure I cum. Some nights I watch Japanese wrestling matches from the early 90's. The last few nights I use my phone to bore someone to death, or sleep, and jerk off to compilation videos of blonde women blowing black men.
I sleep for minutes at a time. When I am not asleep I am grinding my teeth, counting sirens outside of my window, and praying for some stray bullet to find my heart.
Because everyone needs an unexpected funeral.
I think of stories to write, anecdotes to explain away the last few paragraphs.
But that doesn't really bother me anymore.
