The Pussy

This is Why I Can’t Have Kids

Meanwhile I have an infection that will eat my face. Rough spreading redness between the eyes. Lotion every day. By night it recedes. Then when I wake it’s worse. It will spread to my eyeballs and blind me. Die horrible from eye AIDS but first I’ll never get laid again and every woman will laugh at my small penis. And the cat will die.

This is why I can’t have kids. Every minute imagining a rapist vivisecting them. You make a kid, you make a target for acid throwers. Limb severers. As it is I spend at least ten minutes per day picturing a van fragging the cat with its back tires. That’s enough. I don’t need more things to love and be afraid of losing.

All your fears are true. You will die. You will die painfully. The least painful death conceivable is the guillotine. I bet that hurts like a bitch. The blade slicing through your neck nerves, fast as it is– time telescopes out and out and you’re in that moment for a thousand years. Like the stairmaster. Working off one Mrs. Fields Fucking cookie you follow a long train of thought about kneebones grinding. Run lost down long cornering corridors of hate, fear. pain, knowledge of future pain. Look up. The seconds digit hasn’t turned. Watch it laying still for a very long time. Only after does it seem like nothing. In the car with the NPR over the windshield wipers groaning in the cold rain. Cavernously hungry for a Mrs. Field’s cookie. You’re fat. You’ll always be fat. Your soul is fat. No matter how skinny you get people look in your eyes and see fat. Fat ugly stupid small penis long nostril hairs. You trim but you always miss one.