Incapable Of Deep Thought
Kicked! Stuttering and slobbering bloody saliva all over linoleum in a stylized whirligig of frenzied synaptic thrashing and slipping on noodles, scalding palms on the wok still hot from the stove. Piety took second place to indigent fatalism, and now to show for it a painful new scout badge: a fat lip. Later, probably, the delectable tears of intangible regret- an emotional palate too unrefined to appreciate the guilt at the tip of the tongue- although coming so quickly like the headrush of standing up after two and a half beers is vomit. Make way, people! Swollen, unaware of the mental causality, and hurling into the calm waters of your own personal porcelain principate’s pondering position. The stark and brutal fluorescence buzzing from the janky tubes suspended parallel to the single token of narcissism in an otherwise undestated, perhaps even funereally impersonal restroom just make you sicker. Sicker. Sicker. In ungainly storkish tango steps you traverse the oblong expanse of this tiny chamber and smother the light-switch with your palm (one of those little ramplike numbers that click to and fro so delightfully like a retarded see-saw). The hushed tones of this shithouse soothe the stomach. For the third night in a row you sleep in the bathtub. In the morning you wake up and get back into bed, and nobody in the house knows.
