It’s really amazing how you can transform a flat, two-dimensional sheet of paper into a crane, a rose, a snail – you name it, someone out there can make it! I haven’t mastered everything yet, just one book so far, but one of these days you can come to me and say, “James, make me a cephalpopod outta this here paper bag!” and you know what I’ll say? I’ll say “sure thing! (you stupid fuck!- yeah, yeah, muttered under my breath, fuck you too!)!” Oh yeah, those days will come. Heh. Eh, well I dunno really. I don’t even know what the fuck a cephalopod is. Yeah, so I heard it on TV one day and I thought it sounded kind of neat, you know? I like to kind of sound smart(ish) sometimes. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Well, fuck you again! Motherfuckin’ motherfuckers. Well, I’d like to see the likes of your motherfuckin’ ass make something as complicated as that shit!
Anyway, as I was saying, origami is remarkable, really, isn’t it? I mean, really! I try to keep a low profile about this sort of shit though, you know? Like, people might think I’m some sort of a freakin’ fruit or something. God, I fucking hate people so fucking much! I would really like to take a class in origami, but fuck, I know what’d happen. Someone’s stupid-cunt-of-a-wife would be there and she’d see me and she would tell her douchebag-of-a-husband that I was there, and he’d just happen to be my co-worker and jesus-fucking-christ if I weren’t to be called “paper boy” or “oragaymi man.” Stupid fucks. I fucking hate them all. I kinda wish I didn’t hate them so much, it’s just so much useless energy. Ugh.
Anyway, it’s good I live alone. I wouldn’t want my own stupid-cunt-of-a-wife to think that I was her deranged douchebag-of-a-husband. Thank you, NO (bitch)! People, fuck! What a waste of time! I’d rather eat my own nuts than pretend or attempt to have an intelligent conversation with one of them again! Those useless, wasted days are over! FUCK THEM ALL! No more pretending. No more attempts. I fucking give the fuck up!!!!!!!!! You win, mofos! You win the fuckin’ battle with me, but if you think yourselves victorious, I have news for you- it wasn’t much of a battle in the first place, you stupid, vacuous fucks! It’s hard for me to imagine that there was a time in my life when I thought that spending ANY of my time, money, or effort on one of them would somehow be compensated by something. By what? Companionship? A brief fuck? Fuck that shit! I can fucking ‘compensate’ myself, thanks! I was so fucking stupid. Oh well, at least I have learned. More than my 37 years, I have learned.
It’s Sunday. Sundays are great, in a way. I know, I know, I know, yes the part about going to work on Monday sucks, like, a bizillion balls, but otherwise it’s not so bad. I mean, a whole empty day, where no one expects a thing from you and you can get over your hangover either by drinking a ton in the morning and getting over your hangover hangover, or by just sleeping and eating. Okay, maybe it’s a bit of a rough day whichever way you deal with it. Fuck, if I were a church-goer I’d be even more fucked. Hah! I’ve never even imagined a more sound argument for atheism! You hate politicians?!!! Show me an atheist politician! That’s right, you can’t. You know why? It’s because all politicians either believe in god or are pretending to believe in him (her, it, what-the-fuck-ever). Can you present someone more despicable than someone who pretends to believe in a pretend entity? Yeah, I know, the answer is, sadly, “yes.” Humans are the plight of man. Ha! This is so cripplingly depressing. Ooof!
Anyway, newspapers, yeah, sometimes I’ll find a particularly interesting piece and sort of “memorialize” it by sculpting it into a piece of origami. When all news fails, Dilbert will usually do. It’s become my little ritual for the past few Sundays now. Hopefully it’ll become a real ritual, but I do doubt my ability to stick with anything for very long. Maybe booze, but even that’ll kick the shit outta me some day! Eh, whatever.
Here we go-alone all the way with myself self-loathing selfish, shellfish, seaside so long we are all fools fooley fool fools fluff fuck it all the way all the wary way as we know as we know as we know not
Her blood-shot eyes slowly focused and adjusted to the rainy mid-afternoon light that radiated from the spaces between the blinds and cast a sort of DNA-fingerprint onto the laundry-strewn floor. The room stank of stale beer and burnt-out cigarettes, and something else. Some kind of “je ne sais quois,” but a smell that was not completely unfamiliar to her. To her left she heard the faint snore of a man she had met the night before at the bar. In truth, she couldn’t remember what he looked like, much less his name, but that was not a concern of hers any longer. Those times had long since passed. This situation, the scents, the noises, the emptiness through her very core; these were all things to which she was accustomed now. Reaching down to adjust the covers, her hand brushed against her bare breast. Yes, she was naked, no surprise there. She wished she could disappear, she wished she could just flicker out of existence- God, she wished she could die! But, no, more than anything at that moment she wished she could reverse time and stop drinking after 5 or 6 shots, not the 10 or 12 she knew she must have had. But would she have stopped if given the chance to do the night over? Doubtful… no, not doubtful, not a chance! Sylvia knew herself too well. There was nothing in this world that could stop her from drinking once she had started. And sadly, there was little that would prevent her from starting. Oh fuck, where was she? Who was this guy snoring beside her? How would she get home? She wanted nothing more than to escape; to go somewhere where she could be alone in her misery. Where she could bawl uncontrollably. God, she was meant to do so much more with her life. And now, look what she’s become. A fucking whore! A whore with an Ivy League education. But still, nothing more than a fucking whore. She needed desperately to get out, now. Pools were beginning to form heavily in her eyelids and she wasn’t sure that she could contain them for much longer. But how would she get home? Wherever she was, the dude beside her, she remembered, had driven. And even if she could get home on her own, the dread of potentially encountering one of the his housemates was more than she could bear. So what now? Fine, she resigned to the fact that she would simply have to lay there until the jerk awoke. Goddamnit! Restlessly, Sylvia closed her eyes and attempted to go back to sleep, but her racing self-deprecations kept her body from succumbing to much needed rest. At this point, there was no hope of sleep… no hope of oblivion (not until she got her hands on another bottle, at least). Across the room on a disorganized desk, flashing in red the time was 8:55AM. How did it come to this? What in god’s name had forsaken her to such a fate? Was she so worthless? So utterly and completely worthless? Meaningless… empty… hopeless. Yes, she was. But her unwavering self-deprecations would do nothing for her now, and never helped in the past either. She still consistently found herself in these utterly deplorable, confounded acts of promiscuity. And how she absolutely loathed herself, to the piteous core of her condemnable existence. Shit. Flashes of the previous night played out in her mind like an anachromatic film strip, a dream. And she would never fully know which pieces were reality and which were concocted within her intoxicated semi-conscious fantasy of sleep and ethanol. She didn't want to know. It was better that way, for if she knew, she may feel greater embarrassment and shame than she cared to imagine. No, it was best to remain ignorant. Ignorant about her very own life, imagine! What sort of lunatic doesn't want to know herself – doesn’t want to know what she does or where she goes? Her eyes focused again on the blinking diode numerals of the alarm clock on the desk across the room. 9:47. Damnit, why wouldn't this jerk wake up?! What gives him the right to sleep peacefully, ..., in complete ignorance of her devastated psyche? The nerve! The absolute temerity! What kind of person takes advantage of a woman who, no doubt, was stumbling and falling on the way to the car? But... it was her own fault, after all. Wasn't it? She could have stayed at home last night. She should have. She must have conducted herself in an egregiously flirtatious manner (drunk though she was). She always did. And it always ended in the same fashion. Though, sometimes she'd find a man in her own bed, which was worse, because then her own desecration remained in the sheets and the scents in her room. And they'd remain for several days, though she'd promptly wash the sheets. Yes. The very essence of the debauchery would effuse from every piece of furniture, every fiber of carpet, every flake of dried paint on her wall. A stir from her left jolted Sylvia from her thoughts, and she turned to see whether the asshole was awake. He was turned away from her still, but she waited patiently in hopes that he would arise. He didn't. Damn! Maybe if she thrashed around a little, maybe that would wake him. She flipped herself violently on her stomach releasing a few heavy sighs as she did. Still, nothing. Disheartened, Sylvia closed her eyes in one last futile attempt to fall back asleep. But wait! There was a rustling, a shifting beside her. Now was her chance. Sylvia righted herself and peered over at her one night lover. Indeed, his eyes were open. Brown. Not terribly unattractive either. He smiled and wrapped his arm around her bare waist. "Hi." She heard herself say. Her timid sleepy voice sounded weak and acquiescent. He squeezed her gently. "Hey, how ya feelin'?" "I'm alright," she lied, "what about you?" "Alright, huh? You didn't seem very alright last night. You started crying after we, you know." He gestured toward the soggy used condom on the floor. "Oh, yeah," Sylvia noticed the smeared black lines from her mascara on the pillow case, "I do that sometimes." God, she wanted to burst into tears, to collapse and unload her emptiness onto this stranger, she wanted him to hold her, to tell her that she wasn't alone, and yet, she simply wanted to get the hell out of there. "I felt terrible. I mean, like, it felt like I was taking advantage of you, and that's the last thing I'd ever want to do." Yeah, right. Well, maybe he was sincere. Jeez, what did she know? Who WAS this guy? "I'm sorry," always apologizing, "you shouldn't have felt that way. I'm really sorry. I just... it's just that sometimes I... I don't know what it is, but I get really depressed after drinking." “Heh, you’re telling me! So listen, you… want some breakfast or something?” “No, I really should get home… I have this paper to work on” she fabricated. “Okay then. Let me get dressed, I’ll drive you.” He offered ”Thanks,” Sylvia replied.