Sunday, June 17, 2012

Because It's Sunday: A Short Compilation of the Most Depressing Things I've Ever Written

I heard your baby is dead. I'm sending you a copy of Antichrist and a mix tape with every version I can find of "Tears in Heaven."


And maybe I had lived that moment, at that party, some thousand times. The moment a couple hugged outside of the house where everyone was celebrating the murder. And I dry heaved into the street. Aspirating on a type of vomit that was made of how bleak the world suddenly seemed.


I woke up and poured tea straight into my throat out of the gallon jug  and swallowed the concoction of medication that made everything seem tepid, and illusory.

And then, there was the usual call about the usual party where the band would play that wore blonde wigs and covered themselves in fake blood over the giant sign that said, "THE JONBENETS." And the theme of the party had something to do with murdereds and murderers. I should be Sharon Tate, someone thought, and someone would be Charles Manson. Someone would be Phil Spector. Someone would be Lana Clarkson.

And then, my roommate told me the story about the guy I'd met once. The one in the buzzband, and how he'd taken too much acid, or too much pcp, and how he'd dug up the dead body and posed with it, and taken pictures of himself fucking it. The story was true because it had been in the newspaper, and someone had seen the pictures on the website that seemed no longer to exist.

And then, I sat down to write the article, because that's what I was being paid to do. And I was an investigative journalist because I had a Macbook and a Google search bar, and people wanted to know where the pornstars had gone. And they were dead, of course, because they'd been strangled to death or dosed on too many OCs, or they had wrecked their cars somewhere, speeding back to the valley from the weekend in Vegas.

And then, I thought about how they'd had labradors, maybe, or golden retrievers, and how they probably read books, and said funny things to their friends. But none of that mattered because the only thing anyone was ever going to remember about them was staring back at me in tiny thumbnails of tits so saturated in cum that it looked like they'd been bathed in Elmer's school glue, and dead eyed open mouthed stares on faces partially obscured by different colored cocks.

And then, I don't really want to live anymore.

And then, someone is probably going to fuck my dead body.




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