came over to my house last night.
yes, my house.
the one with the smile all over it when she left.
while she was there she hypnotized me with her voice and seduced me with her reverse psychiatry.
she held my hand and esped me through her pulse. it was like morse code in braile.
she pulled my shirt off over my head and led me into the smoking room and asked me to stand on my head for her and i said fine like the zombie i was.
she held my feet and rifled one question after another at me
why does the caged bird sing
what is the sound of one hand clapping
how many girls have you been with
why do some smart people vote for bush
then she asked me why i was going to sue my former company for money when my whole life ive never given a shit about money
i said principle.
she said but you gave up on idealism years ago.
it wasnt yet nightfall but the colors in the sky were all the good oranges and yellows and reds that youd ever wish for in a sunset which was ironic since we were now floating high above sunset blvd although i was still upside down and trying to keep my balance.
she said give to caesar whats caesars
i said but
she said there are many paths that you could have taken that lead you here, now there are many out. you are not a whiner, you are not a victim, you are not a suer. walk out of this darkness
and into the light.
and she kneed me in the nuts and i woke up startled with the phone ringing.
it was a different runway model telling me what a wonderful time she had with me last night and that i shouldnt worry, that everything was going to be fine, and to remember that she wants me. badly.
me, the one who never dreams. who, when caught dreaming damns the wicked spirits for taking advantage of a resting soul during its most vulnerable fooling the mind with lies and ridiculous fantasies.
and i tried to go back to sleep but the mailman knocked and wouldnt stop knocking.
when i opened the door i understood why, it was a barrell containing what appeared to be all of my blog, the busblog, but everything was printed out and red-penned
never got good grades and nothings changed.
i stood there in my pajamas, my robe, and my pipe looking at the mailman like thanks for bumming out my morning, he tipped his pith hat and stuffed my neighbor’s boxes with the typical crap.
there was no way i was gonna get that barrell in my house. if it wasnt for the palm tree by the fence i would have just rolled the barrell off the porch and set it on fire.
right as the mailman left my yard he returned with a small manila envelope
on the return address it said
inside the envelope were 111 pages. my age. the pages were stapled. there were no red pen markings on or around any of the words. there was a picture of karisa on the first page.
and on that first page was a post-it that said, make this a book and sell it and your dreams will come true.
and if its fake fake, im going to kill that fucking mailman.