This is how it starts, the end, I suppose, slithering up from the ground. Flesh turns traitorous, bubbles and fizzes and flakes off like halibut mistakenly ordered at a diner. They’ll take the leg. First the itching, and then they take the leg. Mark it up with a Sharpie, and fire up the bone-saw. They can’t take my leg. I don’t have the energy to run across Canada. I don’t wanna inspire anyone.
No one will recognize me. Beauty lost. Youth gone. The morticians will call their mortician friends over to make Brundlefly jokes. Skin sloughs. Did you know that? Skin’ll slough right off. It’s called degloving. I’ll be a pile of meat in the sun. Maybe the gators will get me. Leave me for the gators. I’d rather them than the doctors. At least the gators don’t bother me about my cholesterol. Childhood, then failure, then gators eat you: this is all life is, Enthusiasts.
Perhaps I’ll be discovered after death like whatshisface that wrote the book about the fat asshole in New Orleans. My Works will be Collected, and my Papers sent to an Important University. Not the one I went to. A good school.
I blame Trump. I blame the Democrats. I blame the Grateful Dead, or spiders. I do not blame bananas; I haven’t eaten a banana in months; I should eat a banana. I blame Whitey. I blame the Ethnics. I blame the Mets. Fuckin’ Mets.
Imagine a donut left out on a sidewalk and fucked by a series of homeless men, fucked angrily. It’s been a week and the donut is putrefying; the homeless dicks continue. They won’t stop fucking, they’ll never stop fucking. You are not that donut. I am that donut. I have no cream filling, and yet I must scream.
The Donate Button is now a fundraiser for my funeral. It was nice not answering any of your e-mails.
Put your damn jockstrap back on. I’m not doing this without you.