If I Catch You Readin' This, Your Ass is Mine
Dea fucking diary,
What the hell is that? Like I’m starting a letter or something. Why would I write love letters to myself? Let’s just cut out the dear crap next time and all the next times. If you think about it, who else would I be talking to? This is a diary, I’m writing in it, nobody else is reading it…makes a whole lotta sense.
Unless some fucking pervert robs my house and he gets off on knowing about the romantic affairs of his victims. This comment is directed to that breaking-and-entering extraordinaire, if you're reading this; first of all, if you stole any of my good shit, ya scumbag, I will hunt you down and hogtie you, drag your sorry ass into your bathroom and force you to take a dump, then I'll dunk your head in the toilet so you know what your own crap tastes like, case you don’t already, then I'll sick my brother’s dog on you, and Diamond'll chew on your nut-sack after you suffocate and pass out submerged in your own shit, and if you open your mouth to repent to Jesus, you might swallow something, and before you know it you'll have your face in your own puke and shit at the same time—sound morbid? Yeah, well, attempting to rob me is morbid.
Secondly, this ain’t no Harloquin romance, it’s just some knockjob’s personal journal, and I don’t think you'll find it that entertaining. So you can just put it down right now and nobody gets hurt, got that, you sack a’dirt? I don’t even know why I’m keeping one of these things. I’m pretty sure there was a point to it, and I think I was even sober when I got talked into this (I’d had a couple Mudslides at Dickie’s, but Mudslides don’t count; that’s a girly drink, but damn those are good; something about combining liquor with a childhood treat like chocolate just feels so right).
Okay, so maybe it’s for the purpose of historical records. Like, say if it rained dirt for thirty days straight and all of human civilization got buried, like some kind of biblical catastrophe, a couple survivors started boinking each other, their sons started boinking their sisters until the whole world got repopulated with a new breed of freaks, a thousand years pass and these new humans—they’d probably have like eight fingers, and instead of two eyes in their head, one eye in the middle of their asshole or something—start looking around for clues about the past, they’ll start up a department of cultural preservation, something with a gay ass name like that, they'll go digging and find my diary and their best linguists will try and reconstruct our language by reading this. In that case, maybe I should make it interesting.
Hmm, the way I talk, they'll probably think fuck is just an article of speech like 'the' or 'and.' That’s pretty funny. Like, seriously, try and picture a bunch of mutant kids engaging in the popular fantasy game of reenacting Neanderthal Diary Man (that’s me; I’ll be a posthumous fucking celebrity) running around in some futuristic sandbox singing fuck fuck fuck, but they’d never know how to pronounce it—just like we don’t really know what color a dinosaur’s skin is, so we just guess and fake it—so it’d probably sound like, like I don’t know, like a drunk’s best imitation of a Tibetan Dung Beetle’s mating call or some shit. That’s some funny shit right there. Fucking A.
Heh, reading over what I just wrote, I’m rambling a lot, and it also appears I said shit more than I said fuck. I hope fuck doesn’t get too jealous. What I mean is, I guess this is diary-virgin jitters, rambling and not saying nothing. Bear with me, cheap little book.
What the hell is that stain on the next page? Does this thing have fucking Anthrax on it or something? If I pick a booger out of my teeth after closing this book, I’ll probly give myself herpes. I bet Mickey over there has herpes. What kind of name is Mickey for a Mexican anyway?
Actually, I got an idea. Now, I’ve never read a diary before, and I don’t read books (they don’t let me onto the premises of the library anymore, not after- well, let’s just say books and blowjobs don’t really mix, in the eyes of the law—librarians are hornier than you can imagine). I’d try and write this like it’s a newspaper, but how fucking cathartic would that be. Do you want to hear my idea? It’s perfect. Remember those books when we were kids, the ones where it’s like you're the star of the book and every few pages it asks you what you want to do, and sends you to page two hundred whatever? You make your own decisions, and the book has like infinity endings. Maybe nineteen endings, really, but enough that you ain’t keeping count. Choose Your Own Adventure.
Where am I right now? If I’m writing this, I gotta be somewhere. So I'll let you choose. I’m either in a bathroom stall at Dickie’s tavern, I’m at home in my chair, or I’m sitting in the bleachers at a baseball game at the high school (I’d sit underneath the bleachers to get a better view of the cheerleaders, but the last time I did that, people kept spilling beer on my head, and I’m starting to think it was on purpose), or, um…I’m sitting on the roof watching a pretty old idyllic sunset.
Okay, guess I have to rephrase that: where are YOU right now? If you're at Dickie’s, turn to page- how the fuck do I know what page? Must have been mathematicians figuring that shit. Naw, we can handle this. It ain’t dick surgery and I ain’t no rock-tit scientist, as old Salty O'Malley would say. If you want to be at Dickies, you're at Dickies. Just imagine you're there. And if you want to be at a baseball game, picture yourself at a goddamned baseball game—whaddo you need me to tell you that for?
And by the way, I lied. Nobody gave me this book, nobody talked me into it, and I haven’t been into Dickie’s since…shit, since before Salty’s niece got knocked up. How do ya like that? I’m a sad sack-a-shit writing love notes to myself, and Day fucking One I catch myself lying, painting a different picture of- no, scratch that. If you were passing the afternoon at Dickie’s and one of your poker buddies said he’d buy you a beer if you start up a diary, and that’s how this got started, turn to page get-married-and-buy-a-swimming-pool. If you flipped over on a dirt bike, woke up on a deserted trail and this book was mysteriously on your lap and then you just started writing in it for no reason, turn to page start-a-cult-and-then-retire-on-a-tropical-island-with-your-converts’-money. If you can’t even remember where you got this thing, turn to page whatever-let’s-just-roll-with-it.
Didja miss me? I sure as fuck didn’t miss you. So, where do you think you are today? I'll give you a hint; it looks a lot like the same place you were at the last time we spoke, it smells like that same shithole, and don’t sound any different neither.
So. You want to get to know me intimately? Well how about no more of this choose-your-own-SHITventure bull-puss. I chose mine, and you- you’re just a pad of paper with a couple piss stains and more’n a couple blots of cigarette ashes on it. You’re a receptacle. There are three kinds of receptacles. There’s the one that goes flush (technically, the one I make dooty in these days doesn’t exactly have plumbing), there’s the one made of rubber that’s one-size-fits-all (don’t have much use for those either at present), and there’s you, the receptacle for my thoughts. That makes you pretty damned lucky, if you ask me. Would you rather have the brown byproducts of my exemplary balanced diet of beef jerky and solid dogfood (I ain’t joking; my sister dared me to eat some when I was fourteen, I’ve been hooked ever since), would you rather have my snow-white splooge, or would you rather have this?
Actually, I take it back, you’re not so lucky; I pity any burglar who’s demented enough to focus both eyes on my chicken scratch. My ce- roommate, is um, of that despicable breed. He told me one night. He’d show up at your house at two in the morning with a van, ski-mask, crowbar, just like the movies, and leave with your television, power tools and all your jewelry. My roommate is a real piece of shit. Mickey. If I ever catch Mickey reading this, I’ll knock his teeth right out of his face. He sees me sitting here writing. He asks me who the fuck I’m writing letters to, my boyfriend? I tell him, no, your boyfriend. Technically, I guess that joke would imply- that’s fucking sick. Fuck you for making me think it.
I mean, you digress. Back to our story. If you want to go on living, turn to page tomorrow. If you want to…turn to page tomorrow. If I don’t throw this damned thing in the pisser where it belongs.
My nametag says sex offender. Guess that means she was offended.
I’m not talking about a nametag like you wear at your first day of kindergarten or rehab, the sticky kind that you write on with a marker. It’s not really a nametag. If you misspell something on a nametag, you can cross it out and write it again. You can peel off a nametag to roll up a used condom in the sticky side and get a new nametag. You can write Mickey fucking Mouse on a nametag.
What I’m talking about is more like, like walking with a limp or something, the kind of limp nobody else can see, and it doesn’t actually slow you down, but you know you got it, and there’s that feeling that goes with it, like, I don’t know
Thank you for reading this Choose Your Own SLUTventure series, hope you enjoyed your decisions. I’m fucking done for today. I’ve got a headache. Not the kind of headache that aches for no reason, and not the kind you get from passing out at the bar after twelve shots of rum. It’s like there’s a little psycho fairy about the size of a cigarette butt flying around in my head with a hammer, just swinging his hammer around and eatin brain cells and being a little fairy, laughing and laughing, because I’m one funny sonofabitch and eating my brain cells is like scarfing on deep-fried funny-on-a-stick till ya puke and his hammer’s got a stinger on the end of it, and he don’t care if I believe in gay psycho-ward cannibal brain fairies or not, he ain’t no Tinkerbell, he just keeps swinging and laughing and swinging around in circles and circles and I’m-
In case you’ve been sneaking under my cot and reading this (I’m paranoid, but who cares; I’m just rattling to myself, like one of those aging acid-heads in the alleys who beat-off in dumpsters and talk about shit that don’t make sense, and if you walk by they’ll make eye contact with you and keep talking the same shit as if now it’s about you — those fucking creeps don’t know when to quit, so sometimes I have to teach’em, and when I decide to get scholastic on a bum’s ass, my kneecap in your groin is about as good as a high school diploma with honors), I hope reading your name made you shiver everywhere else but in your flesh-raison-battleship, if ya smoke my meanin. Because if I open this book tomorrow and it smells like rat puke and nachos, I’ll know that your greasy hands were on it, and when I feel that my privacy has been violated, faces have a funny way of sustaining multiple lacerations from the shards of a beer bottle. Fucking
Where was I?
Apologies (I fucking told you, no more of this dear crap)
I ain’t racist. Seriously, I got nothing against Mexicans. I eat burritos with hot sauce and gin. I happen to be a minority myself. I can be whatever minority you want me to be. If you see a pool of sweat on the page, then I’m from the country where people sweat with their fingers. If I’m black, turn to the page with- naw, I won’t say it. If I’m Jewish, then you’ve probably got ten of these blank booklets because I bought’em on sale, and instead of money I traded in my foreskin for it at the pawn shop, crusty green cornflake junior cock-sack in a pickle jar floating in a halo of fruit flies. If I’m Indian-
Wait, that wasn’t very nice. I’m an ignorant asshole. Seriously, I’m a real prick sometimes, and I deserve what I got. That’s what my nametag should say, my societal- penal, um, nametag. Sex offender? That’s a technical term, like something from a science book. They should do it old school, strip me naked and brand the word ASSHOLE all over my body with a red hot metal grill shaped like words.
We don’t need none of this legal proceedings horseshit, money and lawyers whatever. They should just clamp my balls in a wooden pillory trap-like thing and leave me for a year in the town center, sleet and snow, no food, just a tin bowl of water, and I’ll just stand there with my arms and legs shackled so all you mothers can say to your kindergarteners in hushed whispers as you make your way through the marketplace, “See that naked, bearded fat-ass over there who everyone’s kicking dirt at? Don’t be like that scumbag when you grow up, whaddya say, lovemuffin?” That’d be me, and Mickey, he’d be down in a trough with half his body in swamp water, mosquitoes and shit, and Mickey and I would never even meet. Law should be real simple.
Sex offender…yeah, okay. They gave me this book so I could repent. Come to think of it, I’ll bet Mickey’s got one too, he’s just too embarrassed for me to see him writing in it. Or too paranoid. I wonder if he talks about me in it, about what he’ll do to me if he ever catches me reading his. Maybe he’s thinking about the people he stole shit from.
If I ever find his, I should switch mine with his some night and just say one of the guards did it. That would be some funny shit right there. Ah, fuck, the brain eating fairy’s back, now I’ve got the giggles and my head hurts again. Time lie down.
Your fucking story, bucko
Where do you want to be right now?
If you ask me, it would involve a couple librarians and a-
Well, guess I ain’t so much choosin my own adventures these days. That’s okay.
Least I’m choosin.
| COPYRIGHT 2006-2011
Portland Fiction Project
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED