First in a collection of short stories from the unique perspective of a particularly unique twenty-something.
This fist full of disgusting unstructured scribble is about me – the fuck up. It is all one person despite the fact that each tale spewed onto the page seems to span the full spectrum of classifiable personas. A self-declared schizophrenic. One minute I will be hugging my mother, kissing babies soft, newborn scalps; the next I’ll be smoking crack, fist pumping my meat to the glow of a moaning computer screen. I cry when I watch the dog slowly slip into the afterlife after saving Billy from the pack of wolves in the latest family film, then stomp on the gas to run my tires over a pack of crossing raccoons and giggle at the soft “plump” sound. I’ll help a geriatric stranger across the street while I tell my grandma to fuck off when she asks me to help her out of her rocking chair. Then I’ll take a stroll at midnight and send my keys along every BMW I see as I’m on my way to feed the homeless chicken noodle soup right after I piss in it. My satisfaction of their reaction to the unusually salty taste from the watery meal is whether I decide to give them a friendly kick to the side of their bone tight faces.
Life isn’t supposed to make sense. If people were predictable life would be stale, perhaps dull and, dare I say it, organized. Maybe if we all got a little instruction booklet gripped between our little hands when we came out of our mother’s womb, every mucus drenched manual personalized to each newborn, then my parents may have had a chance. But they didn’t, no one does, which means that the fuck-up that spilled out of the birth canal has just as much of a chance becoming normal than the blind enjoying porn. Not to say that I make life more interesting, less stale. But at least I can say that I contribute to society by allowing some to keep their jobs by analyzing someone like me. Poke and prod, speculate and hypothesize, gawk and stare - I am the main exhibit in the zoo of the scientific world. Tours of stiffs in long white coats and nametags taking their pictures and whispering to each other about how such an unusual creation is possible… Is logical. The guide, my mom or dad, depending on the morning or afternoon tours, will shout to the group “gather around and we’ll tell you how for twenty some years this unique species has existed and we have yet to understand the nature of the beast.”
“It’s purpose, it’s illogical mentality,” my father will say as he points at my blank Neanderthal stare, “Please, use as much flash photography as you want.” And I’m blinded.
I’ve been to psychologists, psychiatrists, brain tumor experts, psychics, had MRIs, EKGs, shock therapy, sedations galore, blue pills, white pills, the occasional stray-jacket and each time I wait for that specific scientific diagnosis, those two simple little words. I mean how would you feel if you were a professional and on the first page of your new clients file in big circled red marker are the words: “FUCK UP”. Some took it as a challenge, they didn’t believe it; every case is solvable, curable. All it takes are the proper treatments, medication and time.
I guess I’m just the little train that could.
The little train that could drive six doctors from their practice and into seclusion at their homes. Writing books about how their failure in medicine gave them the enlightenment to engage in holistic remedies. The little train that could masturbate for two straight hours without blowing his load until that very last second of his sit-down session with his blond, hour-glass shaped psychologist. The little train that could focus enough to shit in his hand to fling at the panel of medical monkey-men with clip boards.
But, of course, none of that happened. Those actions are simply played in my brain every time I lay on the uncomfortable buttoned couch as I’m being prodded about my childhood. My fingers twitching at the very notion of yanking down my pants to show that beautiful woman with certificates plastering the walls my painfully hard erection just screaming for her lips. “PLEASE!” I want to yell, “just touch it and I’ll tell you whatever you want!”
“Fuck-up” isn’t what they say, but I know it’s what they think. It’s all in the cocked eyebrow of my psychiatrist as he tears the four pages from his pad for my new prescription. It was only two pages last month. If I told him what I really think about I don’t think he would have enough paper on that pad to give me a new prescription.
The devil on my shoulder won’t even talk to me anymore.
The fact is I decided a long time ago not to tell people the truth. To keep what I really think about filed away in my clump of a brain. But lately my head has been swelling. I desperately desire to tell the world what secrets lie in this sick little fucked up melon. And when I do they’ll all freeze, their mouths gaping wide, breathe trapped in their lungs and eyes like a newborn doe stuck in the headlights of an oncoming semi.
That’s what these pages are for, to tell my story my way. These are the collection of horrific ironies, emotional breakdowns, sexual escapades, brutal violence, unmerciful tortures, sick fantasies, gruesome childhood memories, evil acts, bloody intentions, wicked thoughts and, if I have time, something pleasant. A collaboration of all my personalities contributing their most memorable parts of the shell of a vehicle that is my body.
A word of warning: do not, I repeat, do not recognize any of these personalities as one of your own. Do not see yourself in any of these stories, compare it to any situation you’ve been in, any decisions you’ve made, any people you’ve met. The moment you discover a piece of yourself within these pages is when that shadow of a skeleton hand will slowly creep up and grip it’s boney fingers around your heart, and that’s when you feel it. That tightening in your chest that forces your stomach to contract and twist. That moment when a switch in your brain may flicker and a light bulb floats above your head. That moment when you realize that we’re not so different after all. Do not let that happen, you aren’t like me, tell yourself right now before you even begin to get into this. Go to a mirror right this second, look at your handsome face and clean, flowing locks of hair and use those soft, pouting lips to say, “I am not a fuck-up.”
No, these jumbled letters are to be deciphered only for my many disgusting confessions and to plead for your unrelenting judgment. All unrestricted discriminations and generalizations are welcome and appreciated. Depending on who I am that day will decide which department your opinion card goes. Otherwise, merely indulge in the mess that is my fucked-up life.
Oh, by the way, tell your reflection I said hello.