There’s an ad in my sidebar. It’s a Dove soap ad. Looks like jizz making its slow, intentional way down the ad onto the black woman. I briefly consider jizzing on my monitor and whispering obscenities to her.
Polly is the MP3 that’s playing now. Should be OGG but I haven’t gotten back. Promise you have been true?
I push the desk and the ice jiggles and Bill Cosby would be happy. I fast-forward past the Misfits song and the Scratch Acid song, She Said, comes on.
[Megaphone]Yeah uh, we got a missing person, and we gotta STD, and we gotta know, so..
And she said:
[woman]’I’m not using my body now, so you can play with me if you want to.’
She did. She said it. She said it over the duh duh duh duh duh duh duuuuuh of the bass. She did. I heard it. You knew it already.
I can do better, I thought. And I looked at the floor. I contemplated the soft mess.
I’m sitting, cross-legged, contemplating all that I haven’t done. I’m sitting, watching, window watching, time go watching cars go by, I’m waiting for these memories to begin.
If I threw my guitar out the window, would anyone care? Would Richard Neuner take it all back? Take back the big chalk? The fatty chalk? (she didn’t say anything, Richard)
Could I jump and scream and let the camera pan around a wide angle and zoom out in faux slow mo and take it back again? Would I?
No, it’s not right. I want it. I want the thing that I remembered. I want to dream about it. Life keeps slipping away. Dripping away. I want to solve troubles of narrow passageways beside the Mcdonald’s. I want to forget about it. I want to pretend it never happened. I want to pretend that I’m okay. I want to pretend that it becomes me. Or do I want to pretend that it doesn’t?
I’m not sure. Do you know? (I know it’s not the grindhouse a’go go)
Someone let the dogs out to show me where the truth is.