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.
This piece was originally posted in my This is bullshit and so can you newsletter back in October 2021.
Enjoyed this newsletter?
Check out my other newsletter: This is bullshit and so can you
Help me defeat Twitter: Pweeter