Something I do that makes me happy is I look at erotic tumblr feeds of small-breasted women.
"Looky thar!" I say to myself while looking at a strange woman’s tits like some green sprout sneakin’ a peek at his first carnival. "Looks like she likes them, maybe even proud of them. Well I’ll be a monkey’s aunt." I’m four monkey’s aunt.
Then I forget why I did it in the first place, but the next time I feel like I have to, I do it again.
Person 1: Who did that song “You Can’t Play With My Yo-Yo?”
Person 2: Da Brat
Person 1: No duh. A brat.
Person 2: No, DA Brat.
Person 1: No duh!
Person 3: Nah, it was Yo-Yo.
Person 1: Yo-Yo…what?
Person 2: Yo, it was Da Brat, yo.
Person 3: No, Da Brat was, like, later.
Person 2: I know! Da Brat was all, “Don’t try to play me out! Peace, brother!”
Person 3: You wack. Yo-Yo.
Person 2: Who you callin’ a yo-yo, brat?
Person 1: Y’all a couple of bitches.
Person 2 & 3: Who you callin’ a bitch?!
Person 1: I know that song! It’s by U-N-I-T-Y.
Queen Latifah: Y’all need to shut the hell up!
I want to write every day, but sometimes I don’t have a thing. When that happens, I go to the home of things to find a new one. This is dangerous because I don’t know for sure what I’m going to find. The home of things is very old. As old as everything itself. There could be spiders there or a maybe a dead person.
Today is one of the days I have to go. My stockpile is empty. I take an old canteen and fill it with holy water. Many people don’t realize this, but holy water is just water with turmeric in it. I put on my going outside clothes, which feel like armor, and go outside. Outside is where things call home.
What happens if I don’t go. Will I cease to be? I have no choice. Anne Lamott is counting on me. Anne Lamott is a writer who specializes in self-depreciation and openness and Christianity. She has known people who have died and people who may have too much alcohol in their bodies. I don’t have to go outside to learn this information. It can be summoned inside via Wikipedia.
Why don’t I just stay inside and write about Wikipedia. That’s cheating. Anne Lamott wants me to go outside, even if there are dead people. If God is dead and God is in all of us, we’re all dead on the inside. That’s not the thing I’m trying to teach you, Wikipedia Anne Lamott whispers to myself. You have to write about an outside thing. Go outside where more things are.
It’s bright outside. You’d think a place that has dead people and spiders in it would be dark, but it’s only that way half the time. To be fair, there are many things out here. Wrought iron. Litter. A man with a large stomach. A miniature soccer ball. These are the things I’m to write about, Anne Lamott? Don’t you think the fact that everyone is carrying a rotting deity around inside of them is more interesting?
She doesn’t. She says if I don’t write about outside things tomorrow she’ll send the dead people and spiders in to me. She’s a pretty good writing coach.
Soft grapes in a bowl
Leaky zombie eyes
Two too mushy under a paper towel
Several others already inside me
Nibbling at me while I dissolve them with acid