Sometimes we are so fucking fucked

Sometimes I wonder what is human.

Sometimes I think about the 2018 post-apocalyptic thriller film, Bird Box. Machine Gun Kelly, the blonde rapper/actor and all-around bad boy had a line early in the film: “We are so fucking fucked,” he says. I think about that line a lot. I think about how John Malkovich from the movie Being John Malkovich is in it, too.

Humans built the pyramids and humans eradicated polio. A human wrote Bird Box. A human convinced John Malkovich from the movie Being John Malkovich to star in a film with a lanky rapper from Cleveland, Ohio who says, “We are so fucking fucked.”

Sometimes I wonder what is human.

Sometimes I think being human means “we are so fucking fucked.”

Sometimes my dog licks another dog’s asshole.

“That is not human,” I say. But I guess it is human, if you’re into that kind of thing.

Sometimes I’m paranoid.
Sometimes I’m paranoid.
Sometimes I’m paranoid.
Sometimes I get caught in a loop.

Sometimes I think about the time a restaurant worker asked me if I had been inside them before when she meant if I had eaten at the restaurant before.

I had not been inside her before and I had not eaten at the restaurant before.

“I am an introvert,” she explained to me.

I nodded in understanding and I asked her for some ranch dressing.

Sometimes I coat the inside of my mouth and the area surrounding my lips with hand sanitizer.

“I have dry skin,” I tell my friends.

I am tired of the noise. It wants more of itself. It’s like that friend of yours who you’re pretty sure wanks it to himself in the mirror.

One morning, I decide to work on my truck. It’s a 1991 Ford F-150.

I pop the hood and spend the day pouring over the Guatemalan penal code to confirm I didn’t do anything illegal during my 2013 trip to Central America.

I sigh, close my laptop and mutter to myself, “That’s enough auto repair for one day.”

I’m still waiting for the sexiness and allure of a boy with mental illness to play itself out. My long, luscious hair, disheveled in all the right places. There’s a cig in my mouth accentuating my chiseled jawline. A single tear rolls down my cheek and drops. Slowly past my abs, sculpted from unresolved childhood traumas and onto my throbbing c...

Sometimes I wonder if there is a God but I don’t think it matters, either way.

Sometimes I drive around, searching for the body of someone I’m sure I’ve killed.

Sometimes I can’t stand the shame.

Sometimes I don’t know if I can do this.

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This piece was originally posted in my This is bullshit and so can you newsletter back in October 2021.

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