23.Dec.2002
they're just facts
--
choose your own adventure
I am tired.
You are my stalker. You are hiding in the bushes directly to the left of my red front door. I step out of the slick blue 1999 Pontiac Grand Am and barely notice you crouching there. You jump out, pull a butter knife on me while murmuring into my ear, "I cannot live without you."
I brush you aside and say, "Oh, stop that nonsense, come inside, have some tea with me. We'll do our nails together."
You say, while pocketing the butter knife you probably lifted from my kitchen, "Oh, yeah, ok. I was just kidding about all that 'cannot live without you' stuff, anyway."
You are a male in my presence. I look you directly in the eye which then reduces you to a fit of extreme tension, and your eloquence fails you immediately. You squirm and say, "What? WHAT?"
I smile.
You are my favorite entity. You are a 1979 Rudolph Wurlitzer upright piano. I have the most intense music sex with you. When you climax, you sound like rushed chords of intermingled heat and static. You make my left hand throb. I collapse onto you. The others either continue watching sub-par movies on the 44-inch Magnavox television, or turn up the music on my computer.
You are Thom Yorke. We have the same vocal range. You are nervous and antsy and find the human race confusing. I want to buy you a drink and take you home with me. You respond, "You have a nice personality."
You are a decidedly goth male with long hair, and you never open your mouth. Thank you.
You are Vanilla Sky. I have watched you 15 times and have not tired of you. I have your soundtrack as well as the songs which were not originally included. I bought you drunk, on a whim, while sauntering mindlessly through the aisles of Wal*Mart, demanding price checks on cat food, and I don't have a cat.
You are a 1991 Chevy Beretta, and Tony is the name of your owner. I sit in the backseat while the stereo system he installed causes the fuck-beats to radiate through my sternum. There are drugs stashed inside of you. I have driven you at odd angles while under different influences, and you responded accordingly.
You are my diary. I spent the better portion of languid days dissecting your archives, struggling with the "delete" key. I later surmised I beheld an infrangible will-power and left your archives alone, although the desire to obliterate them oftentimes reigned supreme. You will never be pass-worded nor shut down.
You are the Dire Straits CD. I am taking you to bed with me.
Which one are you?
--
time & machine