The Monster with the Selfish Grin

You said you would love me forever
but forever was more than you cared to endeavor

You said 'til the end of time
I guess you had a different frame of reference in mind

You said we were meant to be
meant to be discarded so selfishly?

You "claimed" that you would be true
but liar's lie - a lesson I just learned from you

So which lie would you have me believe
that all this time, hidden up your sleeve
the you that you inhabit now
was a you I had never seen somehow

and if that's true, then who did I know
The blistering Sun melts away the snow
It's ugly under all that skin
The monster with the selfish grin

What Happened?

Julie had never seen anyone punch a wall before. Jason must have been really angry.


She had to get to the bottom of this.


But first thing's first...



SHOPPING SPREE!

Walter and Sneed

Walter Mitts was a lonely boy
without a friend to be found
frail and pale, and slow as a snail
with a voice that barely broke sound

Walter's home wasn't broken
at least not in a visible way
but upon closer inspection, a keen eye's detection
would show there's dysfunction at play

Walter's father was angry
And mother ignored the small boy
and with no affection, there grew a collection
of affectations that Walter'd employ

Walter began having visions
of the things that his heart did so need
toys, noise, and other small boys
his favorite of whom was named Sneed

Walter's delusions were stronger
than the usual infantile fare
His pose, nose, and even his clothes
No denying that Sneed was right there

Walter's creation was ugly
reflecting Walter's self worth
Surly, girly, and in no way burly
with attitude exceeding his girth

Walter began seeking counsel
and Sneed would dole out advice
and his phrases like mazes, evolving in phases
were aggressive and often not nice

Walter soon found his nightmares
were one part of Sneed's greater plan
Hives, knives and the taking of lives
Sneed was crafting this man

Walter started with insects
unhooking the things limb by limb
then rats, bats, and even small cats
But Sneed longed for something more grim

Walter, alone with his parents
at dinner, one on each side
grabbed the steak knife, and took both their lives
and that's how the Mitt family died

Walter examined the mess that he made
the blood that seeped from their gashes
and felt a sensation, pure as elation
killing's as easy as plucking eyelashes!

Walter then felt a sorrow
His heart was a tea kettle hissing
the taking of life, the causing of strife
THAT was the thing he'd been missing!

Walter Mitts had a mission
With Sneed there right by his side
That he'd try his best, and he wouldn't rest
Until every last Walter had died!

Walter just looked in the phone book
And picked them all off one by one
A though Z, no Walter set free
Until Walter's a name held by none

Walter then found himself finished
But Sneed still whined and complained
Walter confused, he'd paid all his dues
But Sneed said one Walter remained

Sneed then held up a mirror
Walter had one final task
The tea kettle hissed, he slit his own wrists
Sneed would have no more to ask

For years there would be no Walter's
No Wallie, no Waldo, no Will
But here's the crook that they all overlook
It's the SNEED's not the WALTER's that kill.

Your Life.

"I'm...your density"

You recognize that quote. What is that? Where is it coming from? Your head is pounding and you're in a spinning black box. Open your eyes. THE SUN! You close them again. Too bright. Head still pounding. And not like a light thump. This is a thunderous beating against your skull.

You are hungover.

Open the eyes again? No, too painful. That's an arousing sensation against your manparts - wait, it's straight-up blanket to skin - you are naked. That's odd. Where are your clothes? You grope blindly around the bed.

You hit something. Warm, soft, supple? That's a thigh, and it's not yours.

Okay, there is someone in the bed. Please let it be a woman.

Crack open the eye...

It's facing the opposite direction, but it has long hair. You see that as a good sign. But what if it's a hippie?

You pull down the covers ever so slightly, and turn its body to face you. Careful, careful not to wake. Okay, those are definitely breasts.

Thank god. That was almost boy scout camp all over again.

Well, she is definitely well-shaped. You wonder if she's a butterface. Best not to check.

BACK TO THE FUTURE! You realize that's where the quote is from. It's your room mate's favorite movie. You bet he's downstairs right now, engaged in a little "wake-and-bake", taking stock in last night's debauchery. It's not every day that YOU get chosen to be on THE REAL WORLD: TUSCON. A party was certainly in order.

It's no surprise to you that you made it on the show. Your think about your chiseled features, your toned swimmers body, and your rad Sublime tattoo. Of course you were chosen. You are what women want, and what men want to be. But no one NO ONE can know about your condition. It would ruin you. DON'T THINK ABOUT IT. DON'T THINK ABOUT IT.

You want to get out of bed. If only that light weren't there! You swing your legs off the bed and onto the floor. You decide to blindly navigate to the window and shut the blinds. You sit up. Your stomach turns and a wave of nausea hits you. The liquid rises into your throat. You suppress the urge - for now. With all your strength, you lift yourself off the mattress and use gravity like a bounce board to propel you to the window. You fiddle with blinds. You can never remember which way opens them and which way closes them. Lefty loosie, righty tighty? Trial and error. Finally, darkness. You make slits out of your eyes. Just enough to see.

Okay, this is an exposure you can handle.

You search the floor for boxers. Beer cans, McDonalds wrappers, TONS of ping pong balls. You can't find anything to wear, but you desperately want to bounce before this sorostitute wakes. Fuck it. You walk to the closet and put on the Kimono you bought for the "I think I'm turning Japanese" kegger. You creep across the hardwood floor, avoiding the creaks and cracks that could rise the sleeping slambag. You make it to the door. Success.

Down the stairs and into the common room.

"1.21 GIGAWATTS!"

Sure enough, there's Travis on the couch, eating a chick-fil-a chicken biscuit. Stoned out of his gourd. Reciting all the dialogue. Right now Doc Brown's flipping his shit.

It's now two weeks until you head out to Tuscon. But first you've got to go back home and prepare your parents for what will surely be some scandalous fuckin' television. You also need to stock up on the medicine for your...condition. Because NO ONE NO ONE must know. You have to be careful to conceal your meds and to take them when the cameras aren't spying. Luckily you've had years of experience keeping it a secret - so far only one person knows. Dr. Foster. And he can't tell. Doctor - patient confidentiality. And if he ever quits his practice - BAM! Lacrosse stick to the face!

That reminds you. You better take your meds now. But SHIT, they're back up in your room with that sorostitute. Whatever. You would rather brave the bitch than let it flare up. Okay, back up the stairs. Slowly, quietly. You make it to the door. Okay, open like a ninja. If you were opening this door any slower it wouldn't be opening at all. Finally, you make enough space to slide in.

WHAT THE HELL?!

Long hair is gone. How the hell did she get out? Whatever. She served her purpose. You walk to the dresser. Open it up. Where are your meds? I always keep them under the Maxims. You toss the magazines out, search frantically. oh shit shit shit. Where are they? I NEVER MOVE THEM. FOUR YEARS THEY'VE BEEN RIGHT HERE! You're on the floor, throwing the beer cans aside. Under the bed. NOTHING. SHIT. Everything is whirling. You're back in the black box. It feels like Vertigo. NO. NO NO CAN KNOW. NO ONE CAN KNOW ABOUT MY CONDITION.

You can barely stand up. The liquid's rising again. You grab your stomach. You notice, out of the corner of your eye...

There's a note on your bed.

You propel yourself with the mattress again. To the note. Your head pounds. The last thing you want to do is interpret these squiggles into coherent phrases BUT YOU MUST.

Todd,

Good luck in Tuscon. I know you'll be a hit.

xoxo

Me

PS - I was looking for some altoids in your drawer. Made an interesting discovery. I'm sure the guys in Pi Lambda Phi would LOVE to hear about your...condition.

Let's just say THIS is payback for last September.

You can't hold it in anymore. You puke.

It doesn't help.

She'll Be Comin 'Round the Mountain

"She'll be comin 'round the mountain when she comes
She'll be comin 'round the mountain when she comes
She'll be comin 'round the mountain
She'll be comin 'round the mountain
She'll be comin 'round the mountain when she comes"

Do you know HOW LONG I've been waiting on this goddamned mountain for that bitch?! 63 days! I was told by the other Sherpas that this broad was high maintenance but COME ON! I took this job because of the flexible hours - I did not expect to be sitting on this putrid rock for 63 days smelling like the inside of an old pickle jar, waiting for some hussy who has some real issues with punctuality. I feel like I'm waiting for Godot up here!

First of all, who needs a Sherpa when you've already made it 'round the mountain? That's the hardest part - the round! Navigating the terrain of a mountain by yourself is not only dangerous, it's stupid. But this chick, whoever she is, was BRAIN DEAD enough to take on the task. Fine. I'm not one to judge. But do you really need someone to wave you in during the home stretch?! What assistance could I possibly provide at this point? I'll be a fuckin' bell boy! Can I take your bags, ma'am? Shall I freshen up your donkey? I'm a Sherpa, not some acne-riddled teen at the Marriott.

Before I scaled the mountain, my Sherpa buddy Craig said to me, "Well, maybe she's hot?". No. No way. If she was hot, I would not be up here, flagging her fat-ass down. Where's the husband? Where's the boyfriend? I'll tell you where - NOWHERE. Because she's obviously a troll. And beyond that, she's clearly a bitch. She'll be coming 'round the mountain WHEN SHE COMES? Really? What an inconsiderate piece of shit. Well, I'm glad the whole world revolves around YOUR schedule, lady! It's not like I have anything better to do for 63 days than wait for you to GRACE me with your presence!

So here I am, on day 64, whisky in one hand and a straight razor in the other. Don't think I haven't thought of doing it. I have. But fuck me if I don't keep holding out hope, thinking that maybe, off in the horizon, as the sun sets on another day, that she may actually be coming 'round that mountain. Part of me thinks I don't ever want her to come. Because, then what? Return to my shitty life at the bottom of the mountain? Let me tell you, it may be agony up here, but its a dreamworld compared to the valley. Do you know the last thing I heard before heading up? My sister's younger cousin Gary was raped by a goat. That's the kind of world that the bottom of the mountain provides. Goat rape. Some people say it was consensual, but I knew that goat. And he was a whore.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, 'Why don't you just leave?' Don't you think I've asked myself that question a million times?! But what if, at the very moment I leave, she arrives? What kind of incredible douche would I be then? Waiting 64 days, and then leaving, only to find out I JUST missed her?! No way. I'm sticking this one out. Because I may not know much, but I do know this. She will be coming 'round the mountain. But it's when she comes. So now, it's just a game of chicken. Who will blink first? Certainly not me. All I have to do is stay alive. And avoid that horny goat.

Why I slept with your mom.

Listen Blake.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for so many things. I'm sorry I shanked you in gym class in the seventh grade. I'm sorry I killed your parrot (in my defense, you shouldn't put your dart board so close to the cage). And Jesus man, for the last time, I'm sorry I slept with your mother.

But dude. If you had been there, you would understand. But you weren't. You were too busy backpacking in Europe and "exploring yourself" to see that back home, in the quiet town of Cary, your mother was suffering. IT'S NOT EVERY DAY HER LITTLE BOY LEAVES THE NEST!

I was suffering too. Come on, you've been my broseph since the sandbox. Since before the sandbox. I swear dude, my earliest memory is of YOU - get this - in the hospital! You were several days older than me, and several days wiser. The doctors had barely gotten me clean from the birthing when you turned to me, and you said, "these colors don't run". And then you WINKED at me. You WINKED at me dude. Have you ever seen a baby wink?! It's fucked up.

TWO THINGS.

Firstly - You're right. These colors DON'T run.

Secondly-er (And more importantly) - that day was when I knew we would be best friends.

And we were. You helped me get over my cabinet phobia and I told you why it's NOT ok to smell a lady's purse. Remember the time we laughed for hours? Remember the time I dared you to eat season one of The Andy Griffith Show on dvd? Remember when we wanted to watch season one of The Andy Griffith Show on dvd but then remembered you ate it? And then you tried to throw it up, but you just coughed?

That's the Blake I remember. But you changed, dude. And it came out of nowhere. I mean, suddenly you're off, "doing homework" and "studying". Oh, and nice glasses by the way - you wear those, and yet you don't do what we used to do under the covers because you "aren't gay"?! Nice logic, Einstein.

So you changed. Whatever. But then you applied to college?! Whatever happened to opening the mini golf course? Remember? We were gonna have a mini country club and a mini suburb, too? And then we would walk around and destroy the buildings, like on Power Rangers?! A dream differed, I suppose.

AND THEN YOU REALLY FUCKIN DID IT.

You grabbed that gay little satchel and you went to Europe. "I'll be back in a year", you said, smiling all smug and reeking of your mother's potato salad. And that was the last time I saw you.

But it wasn't the last time I thought about you.

Weeks passed, and I didn't hear from you. I began to forget your voice, your face, and your smell. And I missed that smell.

So I went to your house. And there was your mom, wearing that old velvet bathrobe that displayed the most BEAUTIFUL sideboob. It's like your mom's left nipple was just ITCHING to be free. She looked at me. And I looked at her.

And we both just started crying.

Mine was like a faint whimper. But hers, they were racking sobs. And then, it happened. That nipple finally broke free.

I couldn't help but stare. And she couldn't help but feel a slight breeze. She noticed my wandering eye. I thought I'd be shamed for sure. But no. She was intrigued. Stricken by grief, we both took solace in the others arms.

That means we banged.

I'll spare you the details, but let me just say - woah.

Afterwards, it was a little awkward. I mean, it was fun calling her Mrs. Pennyworth in bed, but now it seemed inappropriate. She wrapped up some potato salad and swore never to speak of it again.

But here we are, nine months later, in the hospital where you and I first met. And I think it's time we bury the hatchet. We're older now. I have a son! And soon, you will be my step son. So let's fuckin let this go, shall we? I'll tell you what, you do this for me, and your mother and I will think about getting you a new parrot.

But no promises.