viscous—not liquid, not solid and it’s tender like an organ. There is no delicate way to do this and the viscous organ lump has filled my mouth to the point that there’s no room to speak. I pull several tissues from the square floral box and cover my lips. I open my mouth and the lump oozes out past my teeth. I resist the urge to look at the thing, to find some science store on the way home and stop to buy a microscope and a lab coat and goggles and spend hours marveling at the lump like it’s the world’s fattest man making aguest appearance at the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not! Museum on the Embarcadero in San Francisco. I quickly ball the lump up in the tissues and drop it onto my lap.
I tell Esther everything, about Ted and Gen and their baby and their Wonderful Friends, about Eva and Parrot Girl and Beefy Cartoon Pants Man. I tell her about Jack and about Rockabilly Ben—there’s not much to say about him, but I find myself liking to say his name.
My insides are raw, I can feel them red and knotted and angry, and the blood is thick and can only seep slowly from the wounds I can’t see. The pain is strangling, not at my neck, but all over. My mouth is surprisingly loose. It’s the only way to release the pain, untangle the knots, and I’ve lost any control, any filters, and my thoughts push out of my mouth in such heavy heaves words trip on my breath. I may be making no sense. I may be speaking tenth-grade Spanish or reciting bits of a particularly hilarious story Ted and I came across in Penthouse Forum shortly after we’d taken Snap weekly and there were never enough hours and it was endless fun thinking of ways to stay alert as we worked through the night.
We’d read this piece over and over to each other and would stay awake every time, always laughing, as it involved a threesome with a double-amputee. She was literally spinning on my dick like a record on a turntable . I know the whole story by heart and so does Ted, or he did back when he was fun. I hope I’m not saying things like that to Esther but I could be. I know I’ve told her about Zeitgeist and Precious Finger and the fucking and the fries and mayo. I know I’ve said fuck me and fuck Ted and fuck Gen and even fuck baby Olivier , for which, if it was ever in question, I am without a doubt going to hell if sometime soon I start to believe in God and Satan and heavenand hell and die of unnatural causes because I don’t think it’s natural not to have a soul. I say this and Esther assures me I do, but she doesn’t know me. She tells me it’s going to be all right again and again. It’s a hypnotic mantra and I almost believe her until the tears come again.
I refuse to have my body confront me a second time with a viscous phlegm ball so I shut my eyes tight until the tears have squeezed out. When I open them again and I look Esther straight in the eyes, which is hard since I’m drunk and my eyes are puffy slits, and unfocused, I tell her I’ve made my career by mocking people. I tell her I have no conscience—how can I? I’ve been doing this for more than fifteen years. It’s not a skill, it’s a personality trait. Esther isn’t buying it and continues to speak so softly and calmly and slowly in a way that sounds like she actually cares so it makes me want to smother her with her dead friend’s pillow, right there on the bed. She doesn’t understand, I can’t put it any plainer.
I tell Esther I’m a bitch and a brat, a hypercritical, judgmental fuck, void of empathy or sympathy. I tell her how it’s all been a fluke, a lucky break so undeserved. I do nothing good, I feel nothing good and sometimes just nothing at all. If I had to choose between Jack and my fuchsia swivel chair, I’d pick the chair. Esther’s still sitting beside me, still telling me it’s going to be all right.
I tell her I don’t care who’s a DO and who’s a DON’T—I expect this to shock her, my biggest reveal—but the moment I say it aloud I
I tell Esther everything, about Ted and Gen and their baby and their Wonderful Friends, about Eva and Parrot Girl and Beefy Cartoon Pants Man. I tell her about Jack and about Rockabilly Ben—there’s not much to say about him, but I find myself liking to say his name.
My insides are raw, I can feel them red and knotted and angry, and the blood is thick and can only seep slowly from the wounds I can’t see. The pain is strangling, not at my neck, but all over. My mouth is surprisingly loose. It’s the only way to release the pain, untangle the knots, and I’ve lost any control, any filters, and my thoughts push out of my mouth in such heavy heaves words trip on my breath. I may be making no sense. I may be speaking tenth-grade Spanish or reciting bits of a particularly hilarious story Ted and I came across in Penthouse Forum shortly after we’d taken Snap weekly and there were never enough hours and it was endless fun thinking of ways to stay alert as we worked through the night.
We’d read this piece over and over to each other and would stay awake every time, always laughing, as it involved a threesome with a double-amputee. She was literally spinning on my dick like a record on a turntable . I know the whole story by heart and so does Ted, or he did back when he was fun. I hope I’m not saying things like that to Esther but I could be. I know I’ve told her about Zeitgeist and Precious Finger and the fucking and the fries and mayo. I know I’ve said fuck me and fuck Ted and fuck Gen and even fuck baby Olivier , for which, if it was ever in question, I am without a doubt going to hell if sometime soon I start to believe in God and Satan and heavenand hell and die of unnatural causes because I don’t think it’s natural not to have a soul. I say this and Esther assures me I do, but she doesn’t know me. She tells me it’s going to be all right again and again. It’s a hypnotic mantra and I almost believe her until the tears come again.
I refuse to have my body confront me a second time with a viscous phlegm ball so I shut my eyes tight until the tears have squeezed out. When I open them again and I look Esther straight in the eyes, which is hard since I’m drunk and my eyes are puffy slits, and unfocused, I tell her I’ve made my career by mocking people. I tell her I have no conscience—how can I? I’ve been doing this for more than fifteen years. It’s not a skill, it’s a personality trait. Esther isn’t buying it and continues to speak so softly and calmly and slowly in a way that sounds like she actually cares so it makes me want to smother her with her dead friend’s pillow, right there on the bed. She doesn’t understand, I can’t put it any plainer.
I tell Esther I’m a bitch and a brat, a hypercritical, judgmental fuck, void of empathy or sympathy. I tell her how it’s all been a fluke, a lucky break so undeserved. I do nothing good, I feel nothing good and sometimes just nothing at all. If I had to choose between Jack and my fuchsia swivel chair, I’d pick the chair. Esther’s still sitting beside me, still telling me it’s going to be all right.
I tell her I don’t care who’s a DO and who’s a DON’T—I expect this to shock her, my biggest reveal—but the moment I say it aloud I
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