it would be terrible to be an accessory to someone else's personal struggle. it would be even worse to get paid for it. it would be even worse to want to do it. but usually its not like that. usually it is just your job. for me, its not my job. and i don't get paid for anything. and i am free to do whatever i want: be an accessory to someone else's personal struggle? don't mind if i do.
i work in the office of a state representative in florida. i cannot tell you who it is, because i do not know. i am high every day, it is a miracle that i am alive. all i know is that he is a friend to all, and he loves everyone very much so much that he gave his life up so he could serve this human race. he is strong and tall and he could survive on his own if the only person he had to help was himself. if he had to help other people by himself he could help a maximum of fifty million adult people. but i forget that to help someone is also to feel for them, and the pain of feeling subtracts at least 28 million from the maximum amount of people he can help. this is why he needs little old me to aid him in his office from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m. every day.
anyways, i love him, because he loves you i am sure. i get him his iced coffee every morning and text him a passage from the bible every morning. i go into his office every morning and i look at every piece of furniture in the office to make sure its ok for him to be around. i update his facebook page for his followers of which there are many. they enjoy a .psd template i made him the hero of and exported to .png because he is lossless. as his social media manager i keep lots of high resolution photos of him on my laptop with alpha masks for easy insertion into whatever setting he or i may desire. we most often desire the state capitol out of focus but sometimes we desire a wild and fantastic abstract geometric pattern or a big blue sky with an american flag overlay.
i tell myself i do what i do out of love for a selfless man. if i ever discovered i put authentic passion into something imaginary i would pretend it was still real. and of course the truth will show through as it will now and forever. i will step away from him and decide to get pussy. i would take money out of my savings and put it into becoming fuckable, and i would go to an independent brewery once covid is over and i would show my love to everyone at the bar until someone asks if they can take it to their apartment, and they would make more money than me, and they saw enough movies to know what tenderness is, and they have a little record player they bought in 2012 at urban outfitters, and they have a little cat named Ted Danson or Anne. Maybe they have 3 cats: Eraserhead, Pencil, and Sharpling. this would be ideal and i have given this scenario a lot of thought, - in fact, -, i am thinking of it again right now.
in the back of my mind i know the show of this man i love will end. his promises and wishes on our behalf that earned him my love and adoration will keep not coming true, again and again, and it will be his fault? for not making our wishes come true? and that's what he will say to me when i knock over the filing cabinet on his last day in office. and he tells me he's been looking at other jobs, and i tell him i feel angry because i haven't, i've only been dreaming of them. and he is wordless, at first because of the weird way that i talk and say things, but then because he knew this would happen and he's been dreaming of this day himself, and its finally here. and we get hot and we get mad and we get in our cars and i go to my apartment and he goes to his house and we hang out with our respective friends because its better than crying.
i go to the folder on my computer i kept all my pictures of him in and i move the pictures in that one into a folder i keep pictures of other people i have loved before and i call it my sick little collection. i fantasize a scenario in which they all meet each other on a beautiful green field with pepperings of lilies and daisies throughout. i save that fantasy. i fantasize a new scenario where i am helping all of them help the world. i save that fantasy. i fantasize a new scenario where they are all taking me out for drinks after work, and they are working in the kitchen and behind the bar just for me. i save that fantasy. i fantasize a new scenario where i tell them i will do the dishes and mop the floors after they close. i save that fantasy. i fantasize a new scenario where they tell me no, and a cab is outside waiting to take my drunk lil ass home to my new friend who is rich and cool. i save that fantasy. i compile all of my photoshop fantasies into comic books and sell them on ebay. i will never advertise them to anyone except you, and they're probably gone by the time you're reading this.
it will be too late to make sense of my life by the time i find out it never made sense at all. the light in the sky will reveal itself to be a hijacked airplane crashing through the window of my apartment and jesus will be in the co-pilot's seat. i will swallow a POPchips Popcorn Chip that will be laying perfectly on top of my charred and bubbling lips and i will do this without teeth. the POPchip will be softened by my blood, my saliva, my pus, and my throw up, but most importantly it will be softened by my tears. they won't be tears of physical pain because i won't feel any. these will be real tears of sorrow helping me eat my final meal. for whatever reason, my final thoughts will be about how this moment is "the blues." the sirens i expect to soon hear sound like the wail of an american blues singer, the sirens i will actually hear will sound weird and alienating, Because Of Right Now. if i were not about to die i would feel disappointed, but instead i just think: "That's fucking life"