Inside or outside boots, inside or outside socks, fresh out of the bath or dry as a bone. Uncle Josh called me Cricket since I was always rubbing em together. Trying to get the itch off. They itch since I don't know when. And nobody seems to know what is(more) what. Oils and creams and nonsense. There's only one cure I know. And that's keep moving. (less)
His, well, real skin was flat and real plain, but never stayed that way. He was always itching an itch that seemed to runaway whenever he tried to itch it. Poor kid looked so ragged sometimes. And sometimes people asked if he's a burn victim. All he ever did(more) was drink water and go to doctors. He tried. Poor kid. Creams, antibiotics, excluding gluten... meaning not eating as much bread, nada, nothing worked.
I could have been clean. Like how Kray would have wanted. The dishes. The floors. The counters. The toilet was a lost cause. But the toilet didn't have a brain that forgot things and hands that always fumbled and I did. So it's easier to assign blame.
(more) Kray liked things looking like Martha Stewart magazines. He had tight piles of them. "Simple Living." "House and Home." "Modern Furniture." He subscribed tooth and nail to Buzzfeed's organization hacks and ApartmentTherapy's soothing, inspirational entries. Once and never again he asked if I had ever thought about dying my hair blonde.
The days stretch longer. Nights spent alone in a mess of piles of clothes and trash and I don't know what, with wild rapid eyes ennumerating what I could have done. (less)
Gare wakes up and checks his phone, email inbox, and kitchen. Messages await.
Inbox: seven social media (spam) messages, three from work, one from Mom...later. Later.
(more) Phone: two texts and a voicemail. All from Mom. "Havent heard form you in a whie. let us kno you'r ok." "Its not ok to ignor us like this." Gare doesn't bother with the voicemail.
Kitchen: on the fridge in dry erase marker the words, "When will you wake up?" and "A ship may be safe in a harbour, but that's not what ships are for."
Gare licks the side of his hand and goes to erase it. He hesitates, then instead pours a bowl of trail mix and milk and takes it to the living room.
He plows through responses for the work emails. They are mostly dumb questions from dumb coworkers. Not even safe at home. Like their dumb follows him as debt collectors would. What does he owe? Nothing. To no one. God damn it.
Julia tried really hard to get me into Christian music. Not that she didn't like pop radio stuff too. I brought my Britney Spears CD to her house once. Her mom caught us listening to it and broke it half saying that it was advocating abusive relationships.
Hell. Don't(more) we all have abusive relationships with something, though? (less)
Contact experiments proved that the bacteria in Lisette's stomach had no interest in food, if microbes can be said to have interests//if those interests are subject to the same influxes of ecstasy and melancholy, that warp one's willingness to engage in what is clinically defined as "interests," to which(more) the human mind is also subject. Doc agreed that perhaps the word "interest" was problematic and that his using it set Lisette up for failure when it came to achieving a total understanding of her own bizarre condition, but for the purposes of discussing her condition, it would have to do.
This was why she had been shitting out meals whole and undigested.
She was very hungry.
"How long has this been going on?"
Lisette didn't know how to answer. For one, she assumed everyone was like this. It was difficult to get her thoughts straight. She was remembering otherwise nice past roommates who would snarl when she exited the bathroom; her ex Natalie who would habitually proclaim during sex her disbelief at what a delight it was to eat Lisette's asshole; her own mother who in tears took Lisette aside at a family function and told her she was so beautiful and didn't need to throw up her food.
"You don't have to lie anymore!" she had said. "I found pieces of the catfish floating in the toilet boil."
"Sorry I thought I flushed it," Lisette said. "It was delicious."
Yuri likes to joke that I have two boyfriends, Yuri awake and Yuri asleep. This is in reference to Yuri's bizarrely high functionality while he is in fact sleeping. We have had many a fine nocturnal exchange that he cannot remember upon waking. I have started not to mention(more) them because maybe Yuri awake will get upset?
Yuri asleep is tricky. He walks around and into things, but Yuri awake does this also. He talks about what things happened at the mill that day as well as our dreams for the future. But for instance when I asked about his suggestion to visit Norway he did not remember ever such a thing crossing his mind. Yuri asleep is a liar also, because he will only tell me what I want to hear while Yuri awake tells me truths both fortunate and unfortunate. So during the crepuscular hours we spend together, I cannot be sure to whom I am speaking or of the veracity of their claims.
So I made a plan to kill one of them so that I may restore some certainty to our shared life. My plan was a success in one way. One of them is assuredly dead.
But which? (less)
1. We had to explain everything we meant. So international relations crumbled. Court trials, pop music concerts, and business meetings dragged on for years. Small, neighborly kinds of talk became labyrinthine pits of despair and woe.
2. We would only talk when we needed something to keep our bodies(more) going. Food, water, a sweater, a pillow. No longer did spoken sentences meander into clause after dependent clause or carry on with lilting emphasis and without a full stop in sight. At this point it seemed the only persons unaffected were Russian or Mongolian.
3. We strongly shamed those who could not follow these unwritten rules for wasting our precious fucking time.
4. The word "love" fell out of use. (less)
Falling in love is like coming back to life. You respond to something in a way you weren't expecting, and then you start experiencing everything the way that this foreign presence does. This is what it's like to melt, you say. This is what it's like to light on(more) fire and to be consumed by myself. This is what it's like to carve myself in order to meet myself later. What it's like to repackage myself for the folks at home. (less)
The water cup with the cartoon bubbles, I fill it up all the way because I'm worried I'll forget to fill it later. And I marvel at how amazing it is that Ish has lived this long, without a proper place to shit and eat and lie down in(more) a sunbeam. Cats just find a way--at least Ish did. She doesn't seem to mind our constant motion, which is the only way I know how to live, and it's why we fit so well together. That's why I'm the Pequod and she's Ishmael. (less)
"Maybe it's me but it's the worst fate I can imagine."
"Being put in a nursing home?"
"I feel humiliated just thinking about it."
"I feel like they deserve it, though."
"That's fucked up."
(more) "Hear me out. You remember that movie Synecdoche?"
"The weird one."
"There's this monologue at the end that talks about how we all unravel into the world and as we age and lose more and more and then we coil back into ourselves. Like about the symmetry of life."
"I figure if I'm incontinent at both ends of life then I don't want to be the one changing my own diapers at the end of it. We all deserve a little caregiving."
"I guess that makes sense."
"Like if I'm in a car crash tomorrow and can't shit on my own anymore that's unfair. I still got many fair and square years of solo shitting under my belt and for fate to take that away is fucked up."
"I'd hate to not be able to wipe my own shit."
"Right, but if I'm ninety-seven who cares? Wipe my ass. Cut my veggies. Let me suck your tits. That's the good life."
"What about not recognizing your friends and family?"
"Fuck em. If they were worth anything I'd remember them."
"Okay but what about getting laid."
"Tough. If I had kids already which I guess is the point of getting laid then I guess I wouldn't care. If I hadn't. That's what the nurse is there for right?" (less)
If I were holding the reins to this pony show, you wouldn't have to die. Hell. For all I know if you were holding em you'd be killing me instead. Business is funny that way. Nice family moves into a nice apartment, no idea what's beating under their floorboards.(more) Then the wife's in the shower and that's where you come crawling out. She screams, hub comes running, the whole mess.
Then I get called.
The way I see it, if nature's a circle then we, you and me, are just doing our parts to keep the gears turning. I don't take it personal if you hate me. And I hope you don't take it personal when I gas you and ride away in my truck and on home to my girl.
Because to folks like me and my girl and that nice family you're terrorizing, well. You're nothing but an unwanted guest. Something satisfying to squish. (less)