That trash —
you know why he reads that trash?
Because,
that trash —
it’s all about relationship fuck-ups he’ll never have.
He reads that trash —
that LaBute men-screwing-over-women and vice-versa trash
because,
he can then —
yes, this is what he does —
he can then —
look himself — I’m telling you, this is always what he does —
look himself in the mirror every empty Friday and Saturday night and say to the reflection: "See?"
He says it again and again: “See?”
Each one louder and louder: “SEE?”
Because, I don’t know, maybe he’s blind.
And, in many ways, he is.
“SEE?”
This is what he’s doing.
Me? I’m running late. People are waiting — and these are people largely of the female persuasion. And this is what he’s doing. The water running in the sink and the shower — the faucets twisted all the way so they’re gushing like Niagara-fucking-Falls — so I can’t, I guess, hear. AND HE’S YELLING THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS OUT AT THE FUCKING MIRROR.
And for what?
He’s trying to convince me?
What, the neighbors?
The whole fuckin’ world?
Fuck, man. We’re animals. This is what we do.
The book, it’s trash.
The fuck it’s called — “Seconds Of Pleasure” — or some shit.
“Dude,” I say, and say it all the time, “I’m real sorry God didn’t make you an oak tree. I’m real sorry He didn’t make you anything that reproduces asexually.” And this is all the time, every morning I’m off to work; every evening I’m out to play.
And he’s in there, pounding his forefinger into the library hardcover (and usually to the point where he jams up all the bones in said finger and he’s sobbing agony), and then he’s holding the book up so he’s seeing himself and the hardcover in the mirror; holds it up right next to his face — like he’s on television pitching some lousy box of detergent — and he’s saying shit like: “THIS. IN HERE. THIS IS HOW BAD THINGS CAN GET.”
He says this shit.
I’m saying right back — he locks the door now — from the hall, I’m saying: “IT’S FICTION! TRASH! AND IF YOU LEAVE IT? AND IF I FIND IT? I’M USING ITS PAGES TO WIPE THE SHIT OUT OF MY ASSHOLE!”
And tonight, what I did was, I kicked in the door, I grabbed him by the shoulders and I shook, and I screamed into his fuckin’ face, “Dude, God gave you a dick. He wants you to use it. And not all by yourself. Smear on some Clearasil, pull on some clean underwear, and let’s go Out — ‘cause that’s what God wants. I’m telling you. He gave you legs to go places, see things, and screw as much of it as is possible. We’re Human, dude. MEN. Rape and pillage.”
Because I’m tryin’ to get in there, I’m trying to use the washroom like a normal human being, to brush my fuckin’ teeth, gargle my fuckin’ Scope, shave my fuckin’ face, goop my fuckin’ hair, all that shit, so I can get the fuck outta there,
and Live
My Fucking
Life.
That’s right: my “Fucking” Life.
I’ve got one.
Not my roommate —
ever-fretting over the possible aftermath of one’s youth.
Aw, but that fucker?
(Really that non-fucker, that anti-fucker)
He’s had no youth.
The fucker was born an old man —
I swear to God —
a geri-fuckin’-atric at thirty-fuckin’-two.
you know why he reads that trash?
Because,
that trash —
it’s all about relationship fuck-ups he’ll never have.
He reads that trash —
that LaBute men-screwing-over-women and vice-versa trash
because,
he can then —
yes, this is what he does —
he can then —
look himself — I’m telling you, this is always what he does —
look himself in the mirror every empty Friday and Saturday night and say to the reflection: "See?"
He says it again and again: “See?”
Each one louder and louder: “SEE?”
Because, I don’t know, maybe he’s blind.
And, in many ways, he is.
“SEE?”
This is what he’s doing.
Me? I’m running late. People are waiting — and these are people largely of the female persuasion. And this is what he’s doing. The water running in the sink and the shower — the faucets twisted all the way so they’re gushing like Niagara-fucking-Falls — so I can’t, I guess, hear. AND HE’S YELLING THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS OUT AT THE FUCKING MIRROR.
And for what?
He’s trying to convince me?
What, the neighbors?
The whole fuckin’ world?
Fuck, man. We’re animals. This is what we do.
The book, it’s trash.
The fuck it’s called — “Seconds Of Pleasure” — or some shit.
“Dude,” I say, and say it all the time, “I’m real sorry God didn’t make you an oak tree. I’m real sorry He didn’t make you anything that reproduces asexually.” And this is all the time, every morning I’m off to work; every evening I’m out to play.
And he’s in there, pounding his forefinger into the library hardcover (and usually to the point where he jams up all the bones in said finger and he’s sobbing agony), and then he’s holding the book up so he’s seeing himself and the hardcover in the mirror; holds it up right next to his face — like he’s on television pitching some lousy box of detergent — and he’s saying shit like: “THIS. IN HERE. THIS IS HOW BAD THINGS CAN GET.”
He says this shit.
I’m saying right back — he locks the door now — from the hall, I’m saying: “IT’S FICTION! TRASH! AND IF YOU LEAVE IT? AND IF I FIND IT? I’M USING ITS PAGES TO WIPE THE SHIT OUT OF MY ASSHOLE!”
And tonight, what I did was, I kicked in the door, I grabbed him by the shoulders and I shook, and I screamed into his fuckin’ face, “Dude, God gave you a dick. He wants you to use it. And not all by yourself. Smear on some Clearasil, pull on some clean underwear, and let’s go Out — ‘cause that’s what God wants. I’m telling you. He gave you legs to go places, see things, and screw as much of it as is possible. We’re Human, dude. MEN. Rape and pillage.”
Because I’m tryin’ to get in there, I’m trying to use the washroom like a normal human being, to brush my fuckin’ teeth, gargle my fuckin’ Scope, shave my fuckin’ face, goop my fuckin’ hair, all that shit, so I can get the fuck outta there,
and Live
My Fucking
Life.
That’s right: my “Fucking” Life.
I’ve got one.
Not my roommate —
ever-fretting over the possible aftermath of one’s youth.
Aw, but that fucker?
(Really that non-fucker, that anti-fucker)
He’s had no youth.
The fucker was born an old man —
I swear to God —
a geri-fuckin’-atric at thirty-fuckin’-two.