fishbeer

Jul 27 2014 7:47 pm

aluminum rasp

For the rapid removal of material, for rough shaping and forming of wood, plastic, and soft metals, good for truing the battery hole on your jet jon. I like the way your hand soap smells, very feminine. Everything you eat could be poison. An aspirin could be deadly, concentrated poison. That bottle of beer could contain deadly, cyanide poison. What faith we put in food, what epistemic blindness, what nonchalance about life and death.


Be so courageous. Be so strong. Walk into the room like you own it. Speak loudly when you speak. Make sure everyone knows that you know you’re elite. Punch a stranger. Show everyone who’s boss. Shoulder them out of the way. Spear them in the heart. Eat their liver. Eat their organs. Literally feast on their soft parts.


Let’s plumb the depths of our collective shame. Reach down deep into the weirdest, shameful shit you’ve got. Grab it. Own it. Think about it all the time until your blushing burns out. Racial shit. Sexual shit. Whatever you’ve got, don’t tell me about it. Just dwell on it. Focus on it. Examine it from all the angles and be sure you know why it’s shameful. Be sure you know why you have it.


Houses that need painted are a good indicator of poverty. The houses look scaly, like they have siding eczema. The once-landscaped beds are weedy and the tops of the weeds aren’t uniform and they scraggle and reach towards the crooked porch.


Last weekend there was an F150 from the mid-nineties up on those sketchy metal ramps in the front yard. She was sitting on the top step of the front porch, leaning over her knees, smoking a cigarette, the weeds scraggling, the paint peeling, the porch leaning, the kids running around everywhere. She was definitely the same woman I saw the week before, at the DMV.

 

She was sitting on the bank of hard plastic chairs next to my bank of hard plastic chairs. We were both holding small pieces of paper with numbers printed on them. She slurred, “Yer like a bear. You need, like, all those chairs.”


I laughed a little and said, “Yeah, at least I have this side all to myself, imagine if I was sitting next to you.”


“Oh, we’d have a good time, you and me, we’d have a great time. This fucking guy, he’s doing homework or something.” She looked over at the kid sitting next to her and gestured at him with a lazy finger.


I said, “Well, we can’t all have tattoos of a naked woman riding a tiger on our legs.”


This made her blush and she crossed her legs at her knees trying to hide the tattoo on her left calf, sinking down into her seat a little bit. “Now I’m embarrassed.”


“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you, I think it’s a pretty badass tattoo, actually.”


“I have a bunch of stupid tattoos,” she said like a child sulking.


She was skinny and pale with dark, shoulder length hair and had black low-top Chuck Taylors on, no socks, short jean shorts, a black tank top, and big silver earrings. She had a lot of tattoos. They were randomly arranged and mostly incomplete, single color drawings. I could smell the booze on her breath across the aisle between the chairs and she was high on something too. She had a pock marked face, but she was young enough that if she stopped now, she’d probably be OK, but it wasn’t going great, so far.


She pulled her heels up onto the lip of her chair and hugged her knees and I looked at the back of her thighs and stared at her ass and thought about fucking her.

 

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