I saw a drake get smashed by a Grand Am
as its female mate flew off.
I was horrified at the pain the lady bird must feel,
but then realized it was just a duck.
I then cried out in my head,
“Oh my god, you have no idea how sad you should feel.”
Over here is where I fell asleep for the first time.
If you look closely you can see my insides spread out across the linoleum.
I THINK I DECIDED I WANT TO BE A WRITER. I WILL SIT ON THIS HARDWOOD FLOOR WITH A PEN AND A PIECE OF PAPER YOUR MOM GOT ME FOR CHRISTMAS. I WILL NOT BE HEMMINGWAY NOR MCCARTHY. I WILL NOT BE GOOD AT ALL. I WILL NOT BE GOOD BUT I PROMISE I WILL AT LEAST TRY AND WHEN I DIE THERE WILL MAYBE BE AT LEAST ONE PERSON WHO REMEMBERS ME AS SOMETHING OTHER THAN A GHOST.
I JUST REMEMBERED THAT WHEN I WAS TEN I MADE MY MOM CRY BECAUSE I WOULDN’T STOP POUTING AFTER WAL-MART SOLD OUT OF FURBYS AND I HATE MYSELF.
Metazen published a poem of mine today called “I consider you following me on Twitter as a profession of faith and as an oath of love”
I feel so fucked all the time.
My cat tore up paper towel all over the house.
I don’t even have the motivation to clean it up.
Something is wrong with me.
I can’t feel happy.
Israel is going to bomb Iran.
People are going to die.
I forgot to take the trashcan off the curb for three days.
I’m worried my neighbors will call the city.
People are tweeting about Facebook buying Instagram,
While Rick Santorum dropped out of the race.
There are no good feelings anymore.
Everyone is on the verge of killing themselves.
People are deleting their Facebooks.
That’s how fucked the world is,
people don’t even want to connect with each other anymore.
I have no money, no one was any money.
Everyone goes to Wal-Mart.
No one can pay for gas.
If Wal-Mart figured out a way to give people cheap gas,
they would rule the world.
What would it be like to own Wal-Mart?
How much money and prestige would you have?
Life must be incredible.
People who own Wal-Mart don’t need to buy lottery tickets.
Everyone morning they win the lottery by being alive.
I read something that said CEO’s of companies like Wal-Mart make like
$1,000 a minute.
It takes me weeks to make $1,000.
People are going to die soon,
I have this intense feeling of wanting to go home
but I’m already here.
I saw God once outside of a liquor store. His head was huge, like a neanderthal’s but with a touch of down’s syndrome mixed with a hint of his mother drinking a bottle of whiskey nightly while he was in the womb.
He stood there, looking at me, his face contorted and horrific, his arms tired and mangled looking, his muscles weak and lame.
“I want you to kill yourself,” he told me.
“Why?” I asked him.
“Because I think it would be fun for both of us.”
“How would it be fun for me? And why for you? I don’t want to die.”
“Don’t be a faggot,” he said, stepping off the curb into the liquor store parking lot. “You want to die, you’re a shitty person. Your writing is terrible, no one wants to read it. You aren’t any good. You stepped on ants when you were little, and your mom bought you a magnifying glass that you used to set them on fire. Remember? You liked to hear them pop.”
“Everyone did that when they were little,” I said back.
“But they learned something when they did it. Their parents told them that all of God’s creatures, my creatures, deserve to live. You just got bored of it. You started masturbating and playing video games.”
“I know that now, I mean, wait. How do you know all of this about me?”
“I’m God, Justin,” he said taking a few steps further into the parking lot.
I was confused and upset.
“Where are you going, asshole?” I said. “You can’t just say this shit and walk away.”
“Hey, fuck you, man,” he said back. “You aren’t listening. I think you should kill yourself. You aren’t going to live much longer anyway. I want you to go to Hell. I want you to be set on fire and drink gasoline and other terrible shit. Fuck you, Justin.”
He took a few steps more.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta get going. Do us all a favor. Seriously, Justin. End it.”
An SUV started honking his horn in the parking lot while it sped down the aisle outside of the liquor store. It seemed to pick up speed right before it smashed into God, his gigantic, fucked head hitting the glass as his body flew into the air.
I saw God once.
I want a lot of shit.
I want a Macbook.
I want to lose 20 pounds.
I want to be funny and witty.
I want hits on my blog.
I want to be part of something.
I can only watch amateur porn. It’s more real(or something).
I want the girls to be a little overweight with big natural breasts and stretch marks. I want their vaginas to be a little hairy, like the sex wasn’t planned, like their boyfriends came over with a new video camera and they were like, “Ok, sure, just don’t put it on the internet.”
You better hope to God that I don’t see a professional cut while I’m jerking off or I will rip out your fucking lungs.
I want the lighting to be bad.
I want to see things from the second, or even third best possible angle.
I want all of this to mean something.
I want to be Don Draper.
I want to be published in every single lit blog.
I want people to read lit blogs.
I want people to think I’m overexposed.
I want to be overrated and diluted.
I want to find people who like the same things that I do but don’t really like the same things I do, they just like them because I’m somebody. They just like them because I am aggressive enough to make them like them.
I want to get drafted and go fight for my country. I want to kill brown people and really mean it. I want their deaths to mean that I am protecting my country.
I want us to bomb Iran and have Israeli flags fly next to American ones.
I want a Macbook.
I want a lot of innocent people to die.
I want to go to sleep with the TV on and watch CNN and be scared and switch to Fox News and be reassured.
I want to sleep knowing that America is the best and that despite it’s stretch marks and hairy pussy, I want to show the whole world that intolerance and hate are normal.
I want to vote for Mitt Romney or Rick Santorum or Newt Gingrich and be happy about it.
I want to feel like I’m waging a war against contraception and abortion.
I want those things to be the first things I think of when I wake up.
I want to carry a sign.
I want a Macbook.
I want to feel God watching me while I call in airstrikes and vote for anyone who isn’t President Obama.
I want to feel scared of the unknown.
I want to be reassured that Heaven is a place and that I am going to it.
I want to hate liberals.
I want to see good deeds and tolerance as disconcerting and stifling.
I want a Macbook.
I want to hate me.
