When my alarm goes off early in the morning, my first thought is, “I’m dying!” There is this strange rigor mortis that sets in when I’m deep asleep as if my body has caught up with my emotional state. I rise out of bed like a sorority girl from her rape table and try to ignore the pain that has locked up my muscles like an uneducated black man. Hah! Two similes in one sentence! I’d pat myself on the back if I could only reach it.
The last, say, ten days, this Roundoms concept has been weighing heavy on my shoulders. I like the project, but it feels like my mind is caught in some vortex of transitive verbs and uncommon nouns. I keep generating words, but all of them come with a snide grin and a bully’s demeanor. I even flipped the audio version to start with The Roundom with me taking on the role of some custodian after a poo punching party. How did I allow this to happen? This battle hasn’t reached the second quarter and I’m already acting like Roberto Duran. “No mas. No mas.”
A wonderful thing about depression is it will completely lift if the right thought goes through your head. I’m one of the lucky ones because I have a new thought every nano second. They overlap one another, but if I pay close attention I can comprehend a thought or two. So, yesterday as I had my lips around my early generation Glock 19, I had this epiphany: “Why does Heineken smell like pee but taste like sweet honey?” No, not that one. This one: “I don’t always have to cave to the generator’s words! Sometimes I could just write about whatever crosses my demented mind! If I wanted to write about head butting a twelve year old girl while I fingered a shitzu’s ass while it was being held by the approving smile of Ru Paul’s vagina, then I could take my fingers out of little fluffy and write it in blood on a Subway napkin. I don’t always have to cater you, Roundoms! I have free will to do what I want! Go ahead! Talk some shit, punk!
I see! You should be stunned! I’m in charge around here, you fucking manipulative bitch! Watch how I stuff this square peg into my round butthole. “Ouch.” You see? This act is a metaphor for our relationship. I do what I want from now on. Damn, that’s uncomfortable. But I’m going to leave it in for the duration of this essay. Just to prove a point. So what do you have to say now?!
I knew it! You just shit yourself! Each corn kernel skipping right down your leg! “When the cops are on your trail and you have a monkey trail. Diarrhea, bum bum! Diarrhea!” You look pathetic, Roundom. Am I being to harsh? Are you gonna cwy now like a witlle baby? What was that?
I know. I know. You’re more sensitive than a little orphan girl. Jesus. OK. Come over here and sit down between my legs and I’ll brush your hair. This blood has completely tangled everything. Hold still, this is going to hurt a little. Stop crying, or I’ll feed you to the Nigga in the alley. He’ll eat anything.
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Good. No, better than good! It’s wicked gnarly, kid! I feel like I’m driving the short bus to see a matinée of Grown Ups part 2. Because that movie is bound to be retarded. I’m sorry. Excuse me for a moment. Hey, billy, stop eating that chocolate! Where did you get that? “A doggie dropped it.” Gross! Why would you eat some shit that a dog unloaded onto the grass? Oh wait. It’s because you’re retarded! You will never know love, Little Billy. Never know what a hard nipple on an excitable woman feels like. You will never know the well oiled, worn in catcher’s mitt that is a woman’s floppy ass vagina. You won’t even know what vagina means. You are doomed to a life of unending celibacy! You want to know why, Little Billy? It’s because you are retarded! Now go sit the fuck down with all the other fuckin’ retards! Jesus, you’re stupid. OK. Where was I?
Right! I feel like an Asian girl on her first white guy date. “Oohhh. I’m gonna get it leal good.” I feel like a bunch of cock suckers on a cock ranch. “There’s too many feathers!” I feel like an alcoholic that has just woke up behind a dumpster having found out he pissed himself. “Yeahhh! No shit this time!” I feel like a man who has just shared a flirtatious moment with an interesting woman that ended with a soft giggle, a slight touch on the arm, an intoxicating smile and exiting comment like, “See you around, smart guy.”
So, I guess this is acceptable. I feel good about it. The essays will continue, but they don’t always have to include you, Generator. Tomorrow is a new day and I don’t necessarily want you around all the time. On occasion, I might want to be alone with my cold Glock and a sweating temple. On other occasions, I might try to fit entire sentences into my rectum, regardless of their shape. The point is you don’t own me anymore, Roundoms. I will always cherish the moments we have had in the past and the ones we will definitely share in the future. With that being said, I must also add, all of this feels good again.