A series of little narratives, all glued together
Wire 002This is the third spam I've received for "Viagra On-Line," but what I want is saltpeter.
How can you be "sex-positive?" That's like being "food-positive" or "pro-human." How did we fuck up our wiring so badly that it even matters?
Wire 004Just in case you read Ftrain and you don't understand, as a legal and voting adult, I take full responsibility for my actions. I've been out of the house since I was 15.
I love my parents. I love my mother, I love my father, and I would take a bullet for either of them. They gave me what they could, but they were as sick and sad as I can be sometimes. We talk several times a week, and I trust them with many things. A victim has no power, which is why children make good victims. I'm not a child.
Thanks for your attention.
Wire 005Hell is not other people. Hell is sitting in your room writing existentialist plays about how hell is other people. Other people don't hate you, unless you've gotten to the booze and think it's songtime.
Wire 006I have to come clean--my name is not Paul Ford. It's Kat.
Paul Ford is this guy...I made him up at random, he's a collection of my worst characteristics. I've never visited New York, much less Brooklyn.
In real life, I'm a 78-year old billionare who made his money selling fake aircraft parts to undeveloped countries. I live in a perfectly antiseptic submarine, and obtain an Internet connection by tapping ocean links.
Truth is stranger than fiction, right? I found the picture of "Ford" on the street, smeared with egg. I think he's a low-level government worker in New Brunswick. My full name is Katranthapa Gupta Sirihan Briggs. I've been called Kat not as an abbreviation of my name, but because my father was a tabby.
I hope I didn't let anyone down.
Wire 007: A Particularly Unbelievable Moment in the Heinous History of American Race RelationsIn the earlier part of this century, the Bronx Zoo exhibited a Pygmy behind bars.
Wire 008: BackrubI am listening to Anita Ward's song "Ring My Bell." This song makes me want to get a bottle of lotion and rub a woman's back, pressing against the muscles of the shoulders with these large, strong hands, plying the warm flesh of every tender spot with gentle caress, releasing tension slowly, over the course of an hour, and letting my hands slip where they will, until she is riveted in comfort, afloat on my touch.
Unfortunately, I'm gay, so after that I'd go home.
Wire 009: PrideThe proud man defends his pride in a bar, at work, and among friends; when he is slandered, when the boss tells him his work is not good, when he is disrespected by others, at every injury, every poke, jab, failed promotion, or slanderous calumny, his chest swells in anger; something unreleasable agitates inside him, throbbing like an infected finger, until he cannot repress it any more, and if he can not strike someone else, some stranger, perhaps he strikes his wife, or at the least he is suddenly cruel to her; and in doing this he reclaims some power from the world. She, the wife of the proud man, has no barrier against his hands, but she has other domains of authority, and so may scream at the children, who listen and mull on her words in quiet fear. The children, with dark grins and warm pleasure coursing over their weedy bodies, then torture the dog with kicks and sticks until it whines out with squealing, pitched remorse, its ginger-ale eyes brimming in shame. The dog begs for forgiveness and an end to the punishment. The children give forgiveness to the creature in its suffering. They have that power, and then everyone is proud, except the dog.
Wire 010: Hangover CureI woke up without a hangover at 8am, after four hours of sleep. A few years ago, I used to think, with cosmic import, that I rose so early after drinking binges because I had gotten in touch with some deeper feeling the night before, via the mental state brought on by the lowered inhibitions of the alcohol. I was sure that booze opened my emotions in some magical way, and consequently diminished my need for sleep, because the sheer force of my booze-revealed personality brought me around in the morning. This was related to my superstition that pure souls, like Gandhi, only needed to rest three or four hours a day. Gandhi also started every day with a piping glass of urine, but I never tried that.
I now understand it's the sugars from the alcohol slamming into my system which shake my pillow, and that my spiritual-psycho-soul explanation was delusional, wacky bullshit.
I use this private parable to remind myself that this year's heartfelt, well-rendered, sincere understanding is next year's idiot shame, and that the things I say now, I should always preface by speaking, "I may be totally wrong, but..."
The greatest majority of historical evidence says that I am.