(Note: the title of this piece is stolen from one of James Frey’s fake memoirs)
All right, good morning. My boss had a migraine today. This means she’s leaving the company. My job will go away. Bills will pile up and up. I will never have money, never have a wife, children. I’ll die alone. I will trip on a crack in the sidewalk and break my jaw and walk around with a cracked mandible half hanging off my skull and swelling like plastic grocery bags full of lard. My penis will shrink and my balls will grow and I’ll be raped and cut to pieces in the street but I won’t die. I’ll live and live while the pigeons peck at my eyes. I will never feel better. A clown will be there and he will laugh at me.
My anal abscess will come back. I will be broke. I will not get unemployment. I will not get another job. Who would hire a man with an infected ass. I will never travel, never fall in love, never again have a girl stroke my back with her hot palm, kiss my ear. No more Isla in her little panties. I’ll never write anything good. The cat will die. My ass. Did I mention my ass. The bills and tickets and taxes will stack up and the city of Los Angeles will send a mounted death squad to my home to take my cock as payment. I will shrink, turn ugly, I will be a retarded Stephen Hawking; I’ll live in a mechanized wheelchair and shit in a bag that’s attached to me by a plastic hose and my penis will break out in boils and everyone will see it and know. The Xbox will break. The car will break, fuck man– my ass really… it doesn’t quite hurt yet, it just feels like there’s a tooth in it. A molar. I did eat hot sauce and Brussels sprouts last night. Maybe that’s the issue.