He wants to know what you think...

d

***

Every morning he wakes from the right side of his twin size bed at 4:44 am - sixty seconds before his sharper image alarm clock screams; painting the white walls of the modest room with a cacophony of single toned distress. An alarm that, like any alarm, demands shock, fear, and panic. With each signal he lifts and drops his eyelids - all dramatic and movie-like - the way a coma patient wakes up, grabs a few blinks, and the fuzzy hospital walls become clear. However, for this slothlike scum bag, he catches his blinks then falls back asleep to start his day.

Every morning he stumbles into the shower at 4:50 AM. He spends 30 seconds rinsing, 30 seconds with shampoo, 30 seconds with conditioner, 3 minutes with his genitals, and 30 seconds rinsing. With a towel wraped around his waist suspended on his half-hard brute, he shaves his face with a norelco electric razor above dirty brown tile and a single sink. In 2 minutes blood escapes from his penis and circulates back towards his vital organs; forcing his towel to the floor to make friends with hair, blood, and piss - the go ahead signal to urine in the sink, turn on the water, and prepare his teeth for a long day of illusions and trickery.

Every morning at 4:58, he doesn't ever floss.

Apathy: The absence or suppression of passion, emotion, or excitement.

You see, flossing with a thin strip of polyethelene ousts food particles and plaque. A man bereft of floss finds a miniature militia taking seige on the gums, building baracks, inviting friends - constructing up a humble village called gingavitis, or the more infamous city, periodontitis. You see, the bacteria builds around the base of the teeth, the showgirls, and as the immune system responds too aggresively, the periodontium tissue inflames - causing progressive, and irreversible bone loss.

You might as well brush your teeth with meth.

Every morning at 5:00 AM he takes three pills.

Three pills.

He takes a sip of water then drops 250 mg of breakfast, 200 mg of happiness, and 50 mg of pain inhibitors into his mouth. Three pills fall from his wrinkly hand, taking flight, battling wind resistance, tumbling through the air like bombs - to destroy an entire sanctuary - artificial contamination.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

Swallow.

He washes away ground zero with one final chase of water.

As he decorates himself up with designer pieces of cotton, polyester, and silk, he stands in front of a mirror that mimics his upper body only. Eye to eye he stares. Face to face he stares.

Every morning at 5:03 he practices his smile in the mirror - like an insecure school girl, or bag of bones model - flashbulbs burst !

Pop !

Recharge, pop, and flash !

"More of that ! Oh you're gorgeous !"

Pop ! Flash !

"Now beam, like a star - no like the sun !"

Pop ! Flash !

"You're happy now, be happy ! You're young and beautiful and your husband just gave you a diamond necklace !"

Pop ! Flash !

"Oh how it shines, how you shine ! Show me how you shine !"

Pop ! Flash !

"How beautiful and happy you look !"

Pop. Flash.

"Thats the money shot - it's a wrap. Pack all this shit up, and lets get the hell outta here. There's more money to chase.

Every morning at 5:05 AM, like a nicotine addict, he takes a long drag of disappointment, shame, and pity then slowly exhales.

He's a god damn theif; stealing and wasting oxygen and space. Murdering time. He keeps track of his victims with a Pierre Cardin automatic dress watch - oversized with its creamy white face, with its premium leather band; its not a watch. It's a reminder of every murdered minute, mangled and bloodied, gasping for breath, victims of neglect, of apathy, of arrogance, of ignorance to the beauty of slow motion. A pool of blood on the sidewalk, lipstick red, seizes pavement like napolean land, as our suspect casually slips by to the places he won't go, the people he won't see, and the things he will never do.

He will die at my hands.

Every morning divided by miles of city, she wakes with the cars, the sirens - gun shots "crack crack !" and echo off the alley walls. Knees to ground, next chest and head; blood, shit, and vomit always arrive at the scene before the officials. Every morning she wakes to the city, callous and real, then falls back asleep to begin her day.

The noises never leave. The screams and moans, like ghosts, haunt the city and the escaping footprints fade but their sounds resound in eternity.

Noise pollution. Don't breath in too deep; the immorality of the sound will choke, and kill, knees to ground, next chest and head, death speaks louder than words.

She showers if she can, but the water will not be wasted, so often times she goes without.

Save the world my young cavalier.

Every morning black is the choice pastel to decorate her creamy white face, tired eyes, tired and sad, and broken smile, broken and half-assed. She hides her hair under a green beanie, with thick strands of green, clinging to the back of her head the way a candy wrapper charged with positive electrons clings to skin.

She brushes her teeth every morning with a brigh lime-green standard toothbrush, starting on the inside of her teeth, moving to the top, and finishing on the outside with a circular motion - a trick her dentist taught her to avoid damaging her gums.

Every morning, she doesn't ever floss.

Saving the world, she drives an old beat up 2010 Prius - the vehicle of humanitarians, protecting forests, whales, and the ozone, one tank of gasoline at a time. It mows lawns, wipes asses, and collects signatures for environment related petitions - fake solutions, for real problems. It's white, with grey interior, the back seats stained from bags of recycled bottles and cans that collect rust because she can never find the time to take them to her neighborhood recycling center; or the time to leave them on the side of the curb for the sanitation crew. So, in her little crusade, she takes them out of recycling circulation, in hopes that one day she will find the time and earn her government reward of 5 cents per can. Soon she'll be able to purchase cigarettes she doesn't like to smoke, subscriptions to magazines she doesn't read, and food she won't keep down for more than minutes.

She's a faker and she knows it. That's why she needs pills to sleep and cigarettes to stay awake, boos to love, and her father to hate, to blame, when it's her own fucked up fault. Like a hat she sits on others to become something more than a tiny abyss of empty space, a waste, pollution, and she knows it.

One time, she tried to kill herself with a handful of happiness pills and the boos of her choice. She passed out and cracked her head on the corner of her bathroom counter top; blood rushed from her mind to the dirty tile floor.

"And if everyone looks to the left, you'll see the Red Sea - infamous for its foul stench, but ever so enjoyable for its crimson tides and low density, making a fun family adventure for everyone ! So make sure you buy your season pass today ! Heck buy two or three !"

It's always the god damn bathroom. How cliche? If I kill myself it's going to be in a kitchen.

It was too much poison for her body to handle and while the ambulance was on its way, she floated somewhere between everything: the falsehoods, the lies, the cliche's, the happiness and sadness, the boos and cigarrettes, the noise, she floated in a giant oversized victorian bathtub, like a lonely row boat in a mountain lake. She was surrounded by prodigious white walls that towered over her for miles, the way scientists in white coats gawk a freak fetus. There was no roof above her, only a picture perfect blue sky with clouds like wall paper. She drifted like driftwood, numb to every distraction of life.

But then, things changed.

She fell for miles and miles and miles and the blue sky above grew smaller and smaller and smaller untill it was only a dot and then it completely disappeared as the white walls moved past her, faster and faster, and she fell lower and lower untill she neared the bottom of the tub with a dark hole, darker than night, than space. The whip, whip, whip, of a foreboding fan lie within the hole, reverberating thunderous noise, as she passed through like carrots in a blender. Her head was dethroned from her body and she watched her intestines shoot out from her stomach that floated several feet away from her. The was no escaping soul, only a mush of guts and blood, a blackened lung off to the right, her butchered quadrecept out to the left, dripping with blood. Completely lacerated and dismembered her body parts continued to rain down and down through the dark room that holds no sound, falling, frightened and hopeless, she landed piece by piece in the palm of a wet hand, that smelled like vomit, blood, and shit. Beginning with her heart each piece of her body began to shiver, cold, alone, teeth chatter, body blue, shiver, cold, alone, eyes go blank and shiver, shiver, shiver, untill the hand slid out from under her and she smashed onto a metel floor and shattered like thin ice.

When the ambulance found her, a man said, "It's always the same."

It is always the same. Too many pills. Too much boos. Sometimes they pass out and choke on their vomit. Other times, they fall and split their head open. Either way, no one's body can handle the poison, and either way, in the end, there's always some sort of dog, licking the victims asshole or cleaning the linolium floor of last night's microwavable dinner.

ZW

really?

nothing?

You're all opening it and overwhelmed by the volume of text right?

puhleeeeeeeeeeeze?

d

powerful, no doubt. but i don't understand the relation between the two. the guy part was all right, it flows well, Bukowsky-ishly. then the girl part begins and is lost. i mean, it would be cool if the girl part mirrorred the guy part. i did that once, with a change of POV. i tend to read "seeing", like a short movie. i saw no reason for it to be a single piece. maybe two separated visions of hopelessness, but i don't see why they are together. two chronicles of meaninglessness, perhaps? if so, they would ask for other chronicles, other visions of the same theme. like Jarmusch's about coffee and cigarettes, or something like that. IMHO.