Thursday, August 2, 2007

Chapter 3: Round and Round (It won't be long)

It's raining. That's a bad sign. It smells like sex. The rain I mean. Sometimes the rain smells like the good sex, like with Archie or with Helga or with Anna or with Justine. Not that that's good sex, but it's better, it's my choice that sex. Other times, well, it doesn't so much smell like sex as sound like it. Drumming and thumping angry punches on my roof. That's the sort of sex that makes me have the other sex. The sort of rain that makes me feel dirty, so that I need the other rain to wash it all away. Do you know what I mean? It doesn't matter if you don't. For now all you need to see is the connection, that sometimes sex is exactly what you need, and other times you'd do anything to make it stop.

I can hear them drinking. Well, I can hear him drinking. The guitar comes out, he shows off to who ever is here and they all fall for it. It's a big hypnotic house, a great distraction. It's got a two-car garage, it's got a pool and a trampoline, it's got two dining rooms, tiles that go from black to white to white to black. And everything is so immaculate and clean. People should be wary of that, other people who are too clean. Because if I know anything, it's that no-one is clean. Everyone is dirty, everyone is trying to wash away their past, or their present. If I ever make it out, and if I ever have a house, it's going to be dirty, because I want every one who knows me to know that I'm dirty. Maybe I'll make some real friends that way. People who don't care, or even better, people who understand. Kind of like therapy, but without the bullshit. A support group of people who can stand each other's filth. And we can laugh together, about the worse kinds of things. God, I wish. The only time I ever laugh about it is on the inside, and it's a real angry, abrasive kind of laugh. Like a donkey choking on a carrot made of nightmares. In therapy they say you should face your demons, but that know-it-all bitch with the fat saggy arms doesn't get what I get every night, her demons don't pull her hair and push her head into the...then again maybe she does, or maybe she just loves to listen to it. Probably gets her off. Therapy's a fucking joke. And I'm just as much the punchline there as I am here.

Knock knock
Who's there?
You don't want to know...

I don't think you want to stay for this.

This is where it gets ugly.


  1. I'm coming back for each entry..I'm hooked. Thank-you again and again.

  2. Brilliant, baby. This one in particular.

    And may I ask, how did you make the clouds rain on your picture? Are you a magician, or a devil?

    Either way, you're clever. x