I Am Lying Through My Teeth Again

by dschapman

Everything’s turning back into a shit show.

One big fucking shit show. A circus of clowns.

And here I am in the middle of it, leading the ring in my tights and my nancy-shoes, pretending to know what I’m doing. I am a joke, I am a dead joke.

They should have killed me when they had the chance. Finished me off and remembered the tragedy of what I could have been, not what I’ve been turned into.

I dreamt that I carried my dying grandmother through a haunted industrial complex, trying to save her sweet life, to take her to the stadium and sit her down for the show and say, “See, we have made it, we will all be okay,” and give the children some money for food from the concessions. But I didn’t make it in time – she died on me. I carried her corpse up the last flight of stairs to the ceiling and fed her to the sun.

I do what I can for my dog because his time on this planet is short. Likewise, he does what he can for me. Time is short these days. If we are lost of one thing, it is time. I lose it by the second, minute, hour. I lose days by days.

9 months clean. They said 9 months clean and they gave a speech about it. Clean and serene.

What does it matter to me? It doesn’t. Nothing matters to me, because I am too weak to pass judgment. I’m too deep in the void to be heard from.

I’m just a fucking nancy-boy. I can’t even stand up for myself, at least not without bluffing. I bluff my way through every fight. I couldn’t lift a barbell if I tried. I’ve tried. I’m pathetic.

My dog can’t lift a barbell, either. He’s a bit of a nancy-boy too. They cut off his balls as a baby. I wonder what his testosterone levels are. I wonder what mine are.

Fortunately, we’re all fucking nancy-boys these days. Every last one of us. They wrote about the demasculinization of man centuries ago, and it has only gotten worse for us, while our lives have gotten better. It is almost universal now.

Life is good for us now, in a universal age. The world has gone on long enough like this, we have been extraordinarily lucky. I hate everyone who can’t understand that, everyone who complains, who is bored, who is dissatisfied. I hate them all. I hate myself. Gun to my head is the sure way up out of it, now.

Trust me – you can’t trust me, shithead. If you’re a woman you’re a cunt and if you’re a man you’re a faggot. Most of us are both, all of it, fucking sick in the head for no reason. Sick in the head and delinquent. I lay patiently in bed and wallow in sickness. Wallowing is what pigs do, in the mud and filth. I wallow like a pig. I heard a story on the radio about Christ, and the wallowing pigs, about the prodigal son and the virgin of Samos. The learned men spoke about Christ and the prodigal son and I listened, very, very closely, and I began to understand some things, and I took what I heard to heart, to new depths of the heart, opening new doors from the closets of vacancy, the vacant recesses and malignant lapses of reason.

Trust me – you can trust me, I’m sincere. I’m one of the few nice men in the world. I am really anomalous, a truly virtuous being – I have gifts, and I’ve talents, and I’m genuinely good, I try to be good and productive. I am the baldest of the monkeys in this scary monkey enclave, and you can trust me to be an ultra-modern sort of monkey, highly-evolved. Ultra-modern men are honest. We are all libras, we are trustworthy, all of our fingers are bald. Our bodies are bald and our teeth well-maintained. You can trust a man who takes care of his teeth.

I dream about her inner thighs. I am an inner thigh guy. Tits and ass, tits and ass, lips and eyes and calves and thighs – 

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