simple smiles of idiotic
gathering dust in the
foyer. yay. my schtick
today is my back hurts
and the man’s thumb
smushes me into the
ground, into a pancake
on the deteriorating floor
of my tiny, overly hot,
coffin-sized apartment.
huge goal: escape. this
goddamned hotbox. hook
up with this lovely human
being. big plans. big plans.
which is there’s only one
plan, one plan, nothing
but on goal in the whole
entire world. or else i die.
or else i hermit out the rest
of my life, which likely ends
near now, a few steps away,
no mojo, the motivation for
this one goal dissipating,
drained, like the gunk that
disappears down the sink,
and not just any old sink,
but the toilet that is the
only working toilet on
your (my) wing of this
i-can’t-in-good-conscious-
complain-about apartment
building, which is, nope,
not going to complain
about it. because goals.
because, i mean, and i’m
sorry to keep having to
remind myself, goal.
singular. one. singular
frustration. and every
little step i take toward
this goal. and let me
tell you, or don’t you
know about baby steps.
focus on my frustration,
folks. you imaginary
friends and acquaint
ances. see me to the
door. the door to my
next cubicle, oh my
god, if you even could,
if anyone could, let me
just say, i’m fine, every
body, i’ll be okay. but
only if i live. or maybe
i’ll be more okay if i die
tragically never having
reached what i would
have imagined most
of my life to be such
a simple goal. good
grief. allow me to con
you with my confidence.
let me wine you without
whinnying about winning.
i’ll pose for my post about
positivity, which i posit’ll
be in the shape of the
statue, or maybe a tiny
little copper or clay
sculpture of my
posterity. if i
live another
day. if only
it were that
one thing i
could work
toward, day
in and day
out. fuck
bureaucracy
and all of the
rest of life that
has to be lived.
dangerously.
menacingly.
i gotcha
goal. i’ll
getcha.
and when
i do, there
they’ll be,
like gigantic
bowling pins,
all of the urgent
things that must
be tackled, that
will get struck,
unless between
now and then i’m
stricken with some
thing deadly, like
death or debilitating
disease. put a lid on
it, dimwit. this is no del
usion, this is real, dude,
as for everything but
that one thing, i’m
on strike. i’ve got
one life, and only
one thing that
must be done.
after that, all
the pins will
fall in my
joyful new
universe,
down my
alley, the
way things
were supposed
to be, the world i
almost knew, it’ll
be, it’ll be, it’ll be.
coffin-sized apartment.
huge goal: escape. this
goddamned hotbox. hook
up with this lovely human
being. big plans. big plans.
which is there’s only one
plan, one plan, nothing
but on goal in the whole
entire world. or else i die.
or else i hermit out the rest
of my life, which likely ends
near now, a few steps away,
no mojo, the motivation for
this one goal dissipating,
drained, like the gunk that
disappears down the sink,
and not just any old sink,
but the toilet that is the
only working toilet on
your (my) wing of this
i-can’t-in-good-conscious-
complain-about apartment
building, which is, nope,
not going to complain
about it. because goals.
because, i mean, and i’m
sorry to keep having to
remind myself, goal.
singular. one. singular
frustration. and every
little step i take toward
this goal. and let me
tell you, or don’t you
know about baby steps.
focus on my frustration,
folks. you imaginary
friends and acquaint
ances. see me to the
door. the door to my
next cubicle, oh my
god, if you even could,
if anyone could, let me
just say, i’m fine, every
body, i’ll be okay. but
only if i live. or maybe
i’ll be more okay if i die
tragically never having
reached what i would
have imagined most
of my life to be such
a simple goal. good
grief. allow me to con
you with my confidence.
let me wine you without
whinnying about winning.
i’ll pose for my post about
positivity, which i posit’ll
be in the shape of the
statue, or maybe a tiny
little copper or clay
sculpture of my
posterity. if i
live another
day. if only
it were that
one thing i
could work
toward, day
in and day
out. fuck
bureaucracy
and all of the
rest of life that
has to be lived.
dangerously.
menacingly.
i gotcha
goal. i’ll
getcha.
and when
i do, there
they’ll be,
like gigantic
bowling pins,
all of the urgent
things that must
be tackled, that
will get struck,
unless between
now and then i’m
stricken with some
thing deadly, like
death or debilitating
disease. put a lid on
it, dimwit. this is no del
usion, this is real, dude,
as for everything but
that one thing, i’m
on strike. i’ve got
one life, and only
one thing that
must be done.
after that, all
the pins will
fall in my
joyful new
universe,
down my
alley, the
way things
were supposed
to be, the world i
almost knew, it’ll
be, it’ll be, it’ll be.
