Anything That Is Amusing and Distracting From Death Is Worth Doing
I would do anything that would make my life different–in the hopes that I would learn to like it as it was happening. I would play an extended word association game with a tired cart attendant in an empty parking lot just to distract myself from this task of trying to figure out what I’m doing in relation to everything else. Anything that is amusing and distracting from death is worth doing and that is why I would say, ‘That cart is self-confident and knows where it wants to be in 5 years’ as I watched an errant cart idly drift into the side of an expensive looking car. I would move my body across the sidewalk while the air was wet, causing my hair to frizz and body to affect a look of damp insanity. In the summer I can look feral and sexual and hungry; people can tell that I am after something.
I would stand outside of a restaurant just to watch the ways couples open doors for each other as practice for when I would get the chance to walk through a doorway with someone who would later sit down with me to eat, who would later lie down in bed with me, who would later wake up next to me, who would later want to enact the whole scene the next day. Outside of the restaurant, I would notice one couple in particular–I would notice how the man was quiet and meek-seeming, too quiet and too gentle. I would notice the woman. I would notice how her legs carried her slight body at a faster pace than the man’s–his softer stomach, reaching down, compliant with gravity–and, accordingly, her hand reached for the door handle and as she held the door open I would watch as she prepared herself for a playful argument–she wanted him to perform his masculinity so that she could perform her womaness (“After you” “No, after you”) but the man smiled politely and walked past her. She looked disappointed but, as these things go, if he were strong he would be too strong. Everyone is always too something–too soft, too rough, too happy, too sad.
Where is the person that is exactly like me?
I would move my body further until it was the next day and I would find myself at work where I would become engrossed in menial tasks, excited to be working so thoroughly and efficiently with just my hands, but then occasionally I would idly drift back into my conscious and find my thoughts thinking, on their own accord or by whatever machinates such things, ‘this is just the state of things’ vaguely considering my suffering with a long outward sigh.
How long can I go on thinking that I am Young and Important?
In everything that I write I always wish I had a dick that I could reference.