Most days I wake up five a.m. I break open three eggs, remove the yolks, dripping them into the garbage disposal, watching the chicken periods slide into Dante’s sixth circle of hell, chuckling at this animalistic version of abortion. Then I devour my eggs, thinking how wonderful it would be if I were a chicken and had cannibalistic tendencies. “Hey Colonel Sanders, check out what I’m doing to your sons and daughters” as I slurp up the undercooked white, gooey, cytoplasmic residue sitting next to my toast.
After that, the morning papers. Obituaries first. Sometimes I even get off on the painful ones – the ones where a woman was choked to death, had her breasts cut off, a bottle stuffed up her ass, and one foot in her mouth. Yea, that does it for me. I like to picture the human body as a mannequin, stuffed in the closet with no air, taken out when I need humanity bent to my will. A twisted arm here, a broken neck there. Nothing is sexier than a body with all limbs in the air and a still heartbeat. Fuck it, I need more eggs.
Breakfast done, I hit the gym. Watching the silky housewives in their spandex tights trying to find a way to maintain their twenties figures just so their husbands will look at them once in a while, or maybe even throw them a lay while they lie on their backs wondering what the fuck they did with the rest of their life, just makes my day. Or maybe they are working on those bodies in case the newest pool guy happens by with a morning hard-on and they can take out twenty years of frustration and angst on the model woodie walking in from the dirty Jacuzzi. Either way, I appreciate the effort and throw a kiss to Victoria’s Secret for the daily seduction.
Then I prepare for work.