We eat your words

Populist Synergy: A Musty Memoir of the Social Medias

“To be a true philosopher in America is to almost invite oblivion. It is only fake philosophers who thrive here. Their format is thoroughly standardized and only requires a persistent, brainless application. One need only have a message plain or vague enough to mean nothing and announce it with a solemn countenance and an oracular bray.”

 

So, I wrote a B plus paper in sixth grade about killing the mayor with a nail. In response, the teacher asked how I’d like to die. By making you pregnant, I said. Then drowning in it. That one’s supposed to hurt the most, the muscles toboganned in her throat. Some climate to the whisper hadn’t played out yet. Class had to share the same candle to burn one another. The medium nominated this week plucked the mucosal strand laddering between our throats. Séances depressed her because no incubus contained the ectoplasmic girth to rape her compellingly. These events occurred before every principal had first say. Back when those kids who siren wailed ooo if somebody got caught weren’t the only pundits left standing.

Ike Frown, she intoned to the cavern between me and her desk. I’m busy catching rabies from my chair. No sirs here yet, just flunk or flight purse wrung hashish critters who can’t rightly pinwheel a gal back by her skins. The tampon string caused many mispronunciations on my part. She had been marred by the state to settle adjacent to her nature, any recompense for the hygiene she insisted we forget. I was ambivalent for the roster. Her saying of other names made them mean too much, followed by the textbook misappropriation of mine, like the syntax of my parents found an evaluation my life never would.

Why can’t you leave your dick off the food? Is it because you hail from any number of country? She wrote on my report card. People say I lack gender in this country depending on the fucking sandwich I pick. When I’m through, you’ll lack gender regardless, she hissed. You know how cats instinctually bob against their oats by some ancient, retaliatory fear considered way cute? That’s you, all day.

My sixth grade teacher’s pornographically sonic instruction to put the glass back in your shoe, symbols her endless sisters carved for a sock. She had an identical twin in every profession. You’d hunt them back from the lowest denominator, cough over who she wasn’t by proxy. Your homework is to nocturnally emit, she said. Vaguely kidnapped, feel vague about how I’ll take you. Her syllabus went as follows: Political science: The so-called value of human life is buoyed by a system of goldbrick laws. History: That we conclude the past occurred is universally arrogant. Biology: No one helps you beyond if you came. That’s why I relate more with the ceiling. Geology: We didn’t fake the fucking moon landing, we faked the moon. Reading: You can’t read. But I sense you enjoy prologues. You like to taste your stitches. S’why your suit’s more coffeehouse than murder. On writing? You vomit indestructibly over your pointer finger, tying up the alphabet with masquerades. Jumping jacks beneath a salt shaker. If literature is about communication, I can get this 2×4 to squirt. The assaultive pride of every poet I’ve met couldn’t power a dingy. For gym, she let us watch her climb the rope. She was the type who didn’t bother with the news, unless Jeffrey Dahmer was on.

She took us on a field trip to the dentist, flunked the first to submit to Novocain. Apparently, you’re wearing the enamel off your teeth with such proficiency they won’t stay teeth much longer. A charity buff, she explained how to tease the infirmed, downed another fistful of whey from the canister under her desk. She was addicted to the aromatic spice of infirmaries. All her fried idolators chased her with a vacuum. I can’t even delight my most meth-faced of neighbors. She’d pour vinegar on your pogs, spitting on each. She followed you with them right to your nightmarish prom. Prom’s where you can play tag with each other’s nightmares in the paltriest portent of America’s feigning for individual growth. Only thing teens have to rebel against here is everyone else’s proud celebration about the impending deadening of any potential they had. Play your pogs at prom or stay the fuck home.

One day she locked herself in the closet with the debate team. They made a noise like they were taking turns swallowing the same glove. You raise your hand like there’s a stoma you can’t cover, she moaned. You threw up a tubercular amount of hand. My homework ate your dog, ate its pussy. It put a saddle on your parents until they needed latchkey.

Good children await their every bowel movement in terror and shall be too exasperated, once it occurs, to fuss during bedtime. Won’t stop dragging chalk till I can transfer the frequency of my tinnitus to the student body. Remember the self-embalmed mortician who, when missing a day at work, smashed his pelvis with a hammer until the hairlines carried over? Don’t be tardy. My greatest privilege is all I have to do to achieve evil is exist. I am so thankful for any harm I cause by the smallest effort. Thank you. However, if I could snipe myself, I’d win Vietnam on my dick.

Every object lags once owned. Her dildo could slide across a carpet. Anybody who breeds is double fucking racist, class. Anyone’s infertility is really on point. Any ho who votes, votes for too tepid a genocide. Scribble a giant X across my whole ballot until the paper is cottage cheese. I’ll never X-out my citizenship hard enough. We are reduced to communication. So reduced that any offhand assessment of the shitty facts is interpreted as a complaint.

Crip sign over each little cardboard milk or it spoils your insides. Sip those gluey smithereens and help your futures be read. Morning pledge: We heehaw allegiance to that we stand united beneath the pubic strobe of who catapults us earthward until China’s a hat and the stars truant from their populace row with rigor back up the tunnel that dared spawn us any taller than it takes to miss, amen. Time to masturbate to Hoosiers till we fracture our plumbing. Class, sense of obligation makes you never a victim.

Bleakest thing about my generation is we never arrived at the fucking apocalypse. Her masturbation had a couple prefaces. There is that whatsoever with inherent restrictions and then there is art. She filled her husband’s urn with femjac. They doubled her insurance. She grieved at bakeries. Constantly said done. Is everyone a junior palm pilot coyote afraid to crust their precum? Let’s be skunk dowsed wanderers baying jelly jelly. I want to crawl through your diabetes. And only discuss the floor. She rubbed her paycheck along my inseam. Comparing the lowest numbers, she implied. We live nationally stewed by self-proclaimed phone booth deities who only endorse the kinds of humiliation easiest to ignore, she said. I was expelled for praying sideways in my desk. She hung me from the short bus by my fingernails so that I might continue.

My sixth grade teacher taught philosophy with the air conditioner up too loud. She kept the thermostat way low. I prefer the cold, children. Reminds me of the absence of god. Second we thought up hell it was our only reality. The human race used the idea of hell to name itself. Also, a hospital’s a way to make death last without the added benefit of hell. I’m saying ideas are like a hellish scarf for the hell we’re in, an ascot safety pinned to us by the useless need to warn, a hades scrunchie. Scariest thing about hell is the confusion of being allowed to communicate with people that ain’t currently also in it. No Christ is smaller than a coffin. I’m going to touch you until Jesus evens out his stigmata.

Is there corporate sponsorship for mass shooters yet? I need a boat. It was true that she shined her apples with a colostomy. I am the rubber chicken Stalin who annihilated LOL, she justified. She set her stole on fire to give porno a name. I hesitate to blow my brains out, because afterwards I won’t be able to scream: you’re welcome! You’re gonna need a parachute for the rash I give you. She’d rather come bubble wrapped with feline AIDs than gain a readership, I told the desk next to mine, slapping its occupant repeatedly when he would not applaud. Are you my chattiest scab, my smegma groupie, stubby in hims crown? She had me peel the cover off Anne of Green Gables with my gum. I came for years imaging Anne had let a single stream of tea dribble from her chin. Refuse to enjoy Kombucha until the scoby can scream. Might we both be creatures expanding our wounds because they won’t close?

The note she caught me passing read: When someone lets me fuck them, it is a miracle against logic. I was held after to delicately swipe erasers across my protruding ribs. I waited for her to okay meals. She thought the war on drugs started with food. Mastication was not a habit she condoned, unless it specifically involved her. She took issue with the male metabolism. I vomited for her on command, through a number of hard to reach locations, a hide and seek played by nose. Upon discovery, she often smeared the miniscule contents of my hacking inside herself and complained how an abortion would feel so much soothingly cooler right now. A less acidic quality to the birdie once dispensed. No worries, you still chirp like no other, and not just because you’re retarded.

For picture day, we affixed lycanthropic digits in ourselves to accentuate the lack of body hair. Your bladders are just the undersized IV bags you were born to fill with disappointment, I mean cheese. Detention if we blinked. For a smell like hers, we were convinced. I had skinned my knee for her with such meticulous sensuality. I was her child during husbands, her husband between husbands, always her permanent worm. She began groaning through something the camera cape omitted: I’m back from prehistory to confiscate every logic bored with food and scratch my name in its fucking place. Set a grid around your senses and cull me from it, map me in your instincts, cave paint me across your first lust. Say the word and all these gathered sperms of architecture ignite. I am the predator your dick built your brain to hide from, ping those logistics beyond your gullet and serve me sky instead. Looks like you reduced fire to a goal. I suffer from the déjà vu of my own cremation. I don’t cry, I just mimic what I’ve caused. Scariest thing about me is I will never need to kill you. I am a better animal. I see content as another flare up. I can tell the future’s something you’ll bring me. There is no isometric torture long or light enough to balance who we are. Pity no revenge can last forever. There are no words for the headache masked behind expression. There are no words.

Anyway, if I may anachronistically call you guys guys, it’s become so bourgeoisie to say anything and mean it, but, trust me, you don’t have to come from money to hate your goddamn self. I am hugged against my will so often. Seriously, the first person to applaud gets the death penalty. Don’t I stink like another fucking benefactor up here? I’ve been utterly quaffed and an assistant taped a boy band microphone to my cheek. You clapped welcomingly, to both our regret. Tired of missing my missus. Kay. My sixth grade teacher died with the advent of the dial up modem. The death of mystery, read her suicide note. They wheeled an early version of the home computer into our classroom once and I remember she was quite particular about dropkicking it thoroughly out the window, even though the outside bars presented some challenge.  The sales pitch I’m getting at is myself, of course, one of many luxuriant whites possessing a top tier education so we can frame our guilt inside a billboard. At thirty, he retires to his parents’ small suburban grotto with the other retirees, sitcom busybody neighbors with fish-hooked eyes. The ceiling of his ignored artwork has been lowering steadily and he plans to promote it, saving up for suicide by the optimistic age of 40 or sooner. He is already praying to the gun they wink and sell him. The space around each word will be the hole his tongue repeats…I should have fallen asleep in the garage with my tricycle running. I should have put comic books in my pockets and walked into the creek.

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