I COULDN'T SHIT AGAIN and it was Wednesday.
I read a book by Drucker and sobbed in my bedroom. The comforter was paisley. The phones were ringing in my apartment. I mocked myself in a pocket mirror for not understanding how to use my cell phone. I listened to a Bruce Springsteen album, and then posed. I stopped posing because Springsteen wouldn't do it. I started posing again because he always did. I ordered chinese from the Twin Dragon, and when the delivery man arrived I pretended not to be home. I tried to do pushups and did one.
I went out.
When I came back I tried to shit again. I laughed at a small statue of a monkey inquisitively holding a skull. I circled both my nipples with a dry erase marker. I wondered what I'd look like with a mustache. I worried about the comment my mailman made concerning my lack of neck girth.
I was going to grow my hair long again. I needed more collared shirts.
I left my apartment again, and put a note on the door that read, "Honey, go around back." I went back inside. I called a former concubine's cell and asked her if she remembered me. I laid on the couch with my head hanging over the edge, upside down, and became emotional. I hopelessly drifted around my apartment like a ghost, but moaned less than the one that was already there.
I wondered aloud, "Boxers or briefs?"
I had no answers.
I made six protein shakes, drank three, and vomited on my burberry coat. I got in my car and drove away. While coasting through a crosswalk, I yelled nonsense at a man my age. I went food shopping. I came back and parked my car. I couldn't walk anymore because my legs were sore because I got too many groceries because I was hungry and because I lived on the second floor.
I tried to shit again and thought about some things.
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Girls, Guns & Hot Rods:
by Jami Beck
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