Happy Birthday To Me2

by Jules Bleach

There are some days where you find yourself, pants down, staring intently at the hair surrounding your nipples, your feet surrounded by a litter of empty beer, wine and gin bottles, ashamed that your body has somehow come to resemble the Staypuff marshmallow man. You get angry and dejected at your Genetics, and curse the proxy Gods, Darwin, Newton, that you can’t just simply slip out of your meat suit and into the fine trimmings of a dandier young gentleman. You take pride in your flaws, the things that make you a You and not a ‘Who?’.

The Posits in your left eye, the Chromatica that splashed some brown into your gray right eye, your split double nipples and the scar that runs across half your torso from eating too many peas as a child. You look at these things and you think, I’ll take the bargain bin sale, sure it don’t work but fuck it’s pretty, but hey clerk, while your at it, chuck in one of those perfectly gaunt and incredibly beautiful bodies and possibly a charming smile too. Lets play dress up for a while, did this thing come with warranty? Fuck you kindly sir, I didn’t ask to look like everyone else, I want my money back. Whats that? No refunds? Let’s take this thing on the road.

Zip it up at the back nice and tight, and hang on for not-so-dear life as we go cruising in our Cadillacs at top speed through the city at night looking for a compadre of cuntiness. A doppelganger of delusion. A brother in the business of pointlessness. The conflict comes in terms of cons when you realize the conundrum rests in cod-pieces at the bottom of the bathroom floor . You flashback involuntarily to the Circus, find yourself with peanuts in your hand feeding the Elephant in the room, the one that, for once no one can see. Desperately trying to validate the existence of this beast you throw peanuts at an old mans face screaming about ivory. Meanwhile the Elephant thinks you’re a complete loon, seeing no one but You, screaming and shouting at an empty room.

You take it for a ride down the streets of your existence, shouting at the top of your lungs for anyone who cared to listen, foolishly attempting to validate yourself through someone else’s experience. It is only then that you realize you’re alone. It’s just you, the Elephant and the empty streets, but the freedom & possibility of what the bright city lights of the horizon may bring, distorted as they are. You see a shape of a T forming in the lights.

Is this my savior, or am I just asleep?