Something out of Nothing

It hits you like a ton of… A ton of what? Don’t say bricks. Everyone says that. Done to death. Come on. Find something original. A new simile. But what? A ton of… Ton of what? A ton of feathers? Also been done but better. Why does it have to be a ton of anything? Why can’t it be a dildo. Why can’t it be feces. Or just a wall. A ton of walls. A wall of tons. Either way stops you dead cold. Why can’t it be a drunk. He’s hit you before. Why can’t it be your open cabinet door. I dunno. Just doesn’t sound good. Ton of bricks is like an 86 Volvo. Tested. Trusted. It’ll take you 500 thousand miles before it breaks. If it aint broke don’t fix it. You parrot fuck. Fine. Fuck it.

It hits you like a ton of bricks. A new literary discovery. Oh sure it’s not like he was born yesterday. Or you. Not like you didn’t know his name before. But now you actually read him cover to cover. And you get to the last page. And you’re sweating. And your heart is racing. Like you’ve really lived. But really it’s just the fight or flight activated by your thoughts.

You lay back all supine still clutching that book like a full syringe. Except this syringe is magical. Always full. You inject and it refills again. You don’t toss this syringe to the ground. And you lay there and think of all this nothing and everything. But mostly you think of how you can do it too. How you can become one of the greats yourself. Well. Fuck it, not even one of the greats. Just one of the honest ones. Just one of the ones who says something. Even if its about how little you have to say. But how do I get something to say, you think. See that’s the problem. You haven’t really lived at all. You go to your 10 hour a day job and you come home and you read read read and you don’t even want to fuck a woman anymore. And you’re only 26. Sure, something was wrong with Buk but there’s something worse, more artificially soul crushingly wrong with you. You don’t want to join the dead masses but you don’t want to join the living either. You’ve never won a fight and you’ve never clearly lost one. Even when that dumb fat homeless bum fuck mouthed off to you and you wanted to get up and do something and teach him something about his place in this world beneath your foot but instead you listened to that old democrat cunt and sat there while he kept on asking those questions poking fun at you with no wit at all. And all you could think was you’re stupid, you’re dumb, you don’t even deserve my response because I’m better than you and I went to Stanford and you can’t even buy a pack of smokes let alone hold a fucking job and contribute to society you goddamn leach, you boring parasite with nothing to say. We should gas you with Cyclon B like they did to my great granddad so you can’t sit around and finger your asshole with drugs drinks and tattoos.

Well. That’s alright. It was the right way to go at the time. Not to fight. Besides, you had to get back to work. What would it look like if you went back there after losing a fight with some fat bum. What would you say. “Jesus Christ Alex what happened to you?” “Some fat bum asked me for a cigarette, and when I said no, he started taunting me. So I thought I’d teach him a lesson but he was bigger and fatter and had strong bum hands.” “What’s that on your collar?” “Probably cum. He came on me after he was done beating my face. Yeah. No big deal.” Oh well. Always with one ass cheek in both zip codes…

And whereas at first you were sweating with excitement. Now. You’re sweating with anxiety. Your mind is roasting itself on a skewer. Your brains are appetizers and your fat handles of love are up next and your asshole is the desert. Yum.

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