White, Used, Dirty: A Plastic Fork in the Road

To resist nature seems natural, human—whatever that means. Cities and shit. There are so many paths to choose from. Someone, please invent a new human who will go a different way. One that doesn’t hurt other humans. One that doesn’t hurt the world it lives in. One that isn’t human.

Humans believe in things. Please invent a new form of lying, one that doesn’t hurt anyone or the world in which the lie is spoken. A form of lying that doesn’t exist, or at least one that is never required and so might as well not exist.

Whole forests are devoted to the growth of the fiction industry, and growth is, of course, the most sustainable of all fictions. We can all grow. Growth is inspirational. Authors have to earn income. Trees grow, too. Fork it over.

I should maybe subscribe to whole-house DVR because there is no [g]od. No one will ever be complete or find closure in anything they ever do in their lives. We are no more lost than one another. Nothing sticks. What kind of fork is this. Don’t lie to me.

I fell out of my family tree and broke my thought bone. I don’t remember what it was connected to. Humans are so unremarkable. I just noticed I’m almost out of peanut butter. I’m so lonely.

People are very supportive of other people whose success they hope to mirror, if not surpass. My goal to become the least read/regarded writer in the world continues to be achieved with almost no effort on my part. Or anyone else's. That sentence about my goal was passive. I am a passive sentence. I have no goal.

How I’m good at not being good enough for anyone. Tonight I’m giving myself piercings with a hole punch. I will punch so many holes that I just won’t be there anymore. Even now, you can see right through me. It takes so much to cry in reverse.

From my high chair I’m starring in my own diaper commercial. I’m twirling oatmeal in a plastic bowl with a fork. I’m crying with my mouth open. My lips feel glued together. I put my finger in the oatmeal. I have so much more to say about a fork.

I once heard a story about a little boy who threw up underwater. Someone saved him from his insides and everyone was happy. Now everyone wants to be saved. No one wonders what the boy ate, despite what they saw floating along the surface of the water.

Humans believe in things. The tines of inspiration. Look at your hands. Inspirational things can be very, very dangerous. I’m white, used, dirty. A plastic fork in the road.

I don’t need [g]od to feed me. I’d be waiting forever. My printer is out of ink and I can’t stop looking at pictures of dead zebras on the internet. Everything dies. The blood of Christ is eventually extracted from a full bladder by gravity through the human urethra.

Eternity has been known to last a lifetime. Earlier I noticed my shoelace was untied. I’m so lonely.

Pass the holy water. My piercings are getting infected because there is no [g]od. Pour the water all over me, into all my holes. Punch holes in the water. Holy water. Punch through me. I’m right here. I'm thirsty.

If there was a [g]od, I would maybe not need to record several television programs at once in every room of my house. There’s got to be a premium package for that. There’s so much I don’t want to miss. People do handstands, for Christ's sake.

To resist nature seems religious. I can just sit at home and watch that on television. A universal remote wouldn’t really let me do anything.

We’re all going to die. There are so many blogs to read. Most blogs I read lately barely get any comments. I’m not sure anymore who’s connecting with who, if anyone—or about what, if anything.

Eventually, it seems natural to eat with your hands.