So I said No to Facebook. The same way I said No to ICQ and later, MSN Messenger, and then Friendster. And computers, in general. The Internet, specifically. And anything more high-tech than an iPod and DS. Or the occasional Palm.
But in the end, you win. The world revolves, and we are relevant or lost.
So, thanks for nothing Friendster, and hello, Facebook.
(The good news is, we’re winning the war against PSPs and PS3s.)
Back in the same hole, looking upwards – or perhaps not; there is no light, no direction. No silly thoughts of slitting anything; slits are the only things I can always look forward to. They come, they drip, they bleed, they come again, and they go. This is a big hole. A deep hole. With black depths and bad debts I can’t pay my way out of.
Tiny. White. 0.25mg of relief. Swirling down the drain, mixing with the black for grey relief. But it’s no reprieve.
What’s wrong with me?
I was always prepared with a hard-on, even before the shoes came off. It was my answer to everything:
A (perhaps not-so-innocent) brush against my arm.
Hard-on.
A (maybe, in hindsight, misinterpreted) smile.
Hard-on.
"Hello -"
Hard-on.
"Customer Service."
Here I am, pressed between those hallowed cheeks, desperately squishing Mr. Wimpy against a most delightfully pink perineum, summoning all the most depraved scenes I’ve ever seen on DVD and Beasttube, even, and … I’m still desperately squishing.
Squish, squish, squish, I make a mockery of the saddest porn parodies.
Finally the subject of my conquest extricates herself, throwing me off-balance. I flop on the bed, face down, crying, my Humiliation trapped between its blameless twin companions - finding no consolation in their sweaty (and conspirational) silence - its inability to rise further proof of the increasing gravity of my situation.
Pathetic! I squeal. Wuss, I whimper. Ass … the musky, brown, centre of the universe spins, gathering mass and filling the limits of my vision, finally enveloping me in a firm, understanding and almost kind embrace.
Into the Ass I step, into Turd I transform. Soft, brown, gooey … and ultimately a stinker. Free of expectations, at last.
Nothing wrong now, nothing difficult about this.
Nothing hard at all.
Time to let go.
the dark man said. "But tell her to leave the nagging behind."
The next night, they were standing at a platform, all three of them dressed in long, black coats, the mist curling against their ankles, feeling its way around the folds of expensive fabric.
The train was late. In the little moonlight they were afforded, he watched her bite her lip: a silver spoon in a plump strawberry. Her eyes flickered impatiently but the rest of her face showed not the slightest crease of concern. He smiled gratefully at her. If she shifted her weight to the other leg, he couldn’t tell. The trench coat cloaked her like the starless night - her face floated steadily, unsupported.
The other man was a stranger to Mary. She couldn’t see his face, and that made her uneasy. He was also completely silent - he nodded once when they first met, and had since taken to studying them, unmoving, from the shadows.
A distant rumbling, muted and distorted by the heavy mist, began its approach. The train was finally about to arrive. She’d be getting on it with the two men: a husband who held her tongue and a dark stranger they had entrusted themselves to. For whatever reason.
The stitches in her mouth reminded her she’d be asking no questions.
Your legs are parted like your lips. Pouting desire. You’re moist, but you also just came out of the bathroom. Seated on that uncomfortable chair nicked from the cafeteria, you lift one leg and place your foot on the seat. In the face of that twisted grin – if your heel had a nose – but I wasn’t thinking. You work with a mirror and tweezers. I can almost hear the plucking. An organic stutter accompanied by steady, heavy breathing. Not mine, mine’s held. The seconds tick with every tweak. Time slows to a miserable ecstasy. The eyes in your heel water and defocus. The tongue in your heel stretches but never quite reaches. Always just. A hair’s breadth. (And then it is yanked) away. One foot goes down, the other goes up. Now it’s my turn.
Eyes open, I breathe in. And let my tongue hang. Loose. Dripping in unison. In time to your ritual, we pool.
I’m living every day like it’s my last … at work.
That means I come in whenever I want to, I leave when I feel like it, I pick the projects I want to work on and the deadlines I decide to meet.
Come on. Tell me otherwise. All I’m missing is the date.
The ants are crawling. All over my skin. Burrowing into the hollows between my ankles and my shoes. Into the spaces between my toes. Under my clothes. Out of my nostrils, into my ears. Around my sinking eyes. They chew on my lips, peeling dead skin off dead flesh. My mouth is a pool of ants, crawling, crawling … a seething, red mass, spilling out endlessly, swarming back in through any convenient orifice, making incisions and boring tunnels where there are none. I know what you’re doing, I think out to them. A million voices do not answer; they are busy biting and cutting, and carting tiny chunks of tongue into the hungry mouths of their babies to feed a growing army of busy, single-minded marauders.
They scuttle. A million ants; six legs each. S-s-s-s-s-scuttle. Pincers gaping, snapping shut. Flesh twisting, tearing. S-s-s-s-s-scuttling all over my skin.
Millions of babies to feed. Millions of babies in my mouth. Do I swallow, do I spit?
There he is. Half-asleep on the couch. A stirring documentary plays on TV. But the volume is turned down; the fascinating sounds of mating cicadas are barely audible. Outside, it’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon. The newspaper’s exciting headlines lie flat against his thick, clammy thighs. Its pages occasionally flap in the refreshing breeze a rusty oscillating fan provides. A rare Ford Everest speeds past his open window. It’s on a dragon-hunting expedition. Possibly something he could be curious about. But easy now. He’s the average man. He doesn’t care. Ahh…
Glue. If it don’t fix your broken heart, you could always sniff it. Good old glue. Not very much different from a good old buddy, except although good old buddies can stick to you like good old glue does (although not with the same consistency you’d hope to expect), they don’t put hooks on walls for you to hang glue from. That is, if it’s the sort of glue that comes in buckets that, in turn, come with handles attached. (The glue is works!) Have you seen that sort of glue? I haven’t. But I certainly might have sniffed it.
Now, gum. That’s a different story altogether, gum. And smell too, of course. Although you don’t sniff gum. Gum, you chew. Unless it’s gum you got from the upas tree. In which case you’d chew, and then die, probably.
Don’t you think it’s funny how a tiny prick hurts, but a big dick is mostly pleasurable?
But the real question is: is it easier to glue gum, or gum glue?
Snort.
I’ve been pretty hungry. Last night I had fried rice and a chicken drumstick for dinner. Washed it down with tea, and then I turned my attention to the burger stall. One Ramli beef, please. Good enough to keep me going… up to the Burger King drive-through. That’s how you make cheeseburgers. And mozarella sticks. And then I was home. Sitting on my bed, staring at the carton of battery acid flavoured Thai instant noodles. Mmm.
Thanks, A.M. Rasydan.
