Below the cerulean waves lays a mermaid. She sits and waits for lost sailors to fall overboard and drown before inspecting the corpses. There’s something in the way the life starts to fade from their graying skin beneath the waves. She longs to feel the sun, but fears to leave the deep, afraid of the fresh air and the consequences it will have on her undisturbed home in the sea. I’ve seen her. Under ships and floating carcasses, the bones of her last meal resting on the foam. Her hair glows in contrast to the infinite depths that stare out from the void; an explosion of gold trailing behind her. Her eyes royalty, stagnancy, putrid validity. A stare that locks you in solitude praying for a well built tomb, buckets of water being pulled out of you. Your water drains into the aquifers and lakes, into streams and rivers, and back to her. She tastes your demise, she wants it, she prays. And every day she rides the waves back into the shipping lanes. Her siren song a metaphor, even to a creature as mystical and beautiful as her. She flashes rocks at passing crews, hoping the shine will catch an eye, but the wooden giants usually pass by, leaving nothing but their wake.
Mi abuelo was the first to speak of her, her azul tail followed him during his times at sea as a merchant marine. Glorified tide puller rising in the east, the sun setting on the other side left him on the deck with a mist in his eyes. Searching for a home amongst the whales and sharks, he saw pale skin through the moons reflection in the water. “Ay dios mio!” pero all he could do was stare. She was a ghost by the next second, disappearing as quick as she came. Un reflejo de una historia falsa. Ella too afraid to make contact and my grandfather used to breathe too much air. So he never saw her again, but knew that she was there, on moonlight filled nights he could feel her eyes on him. The hairs on the back of his neck, el pelo que he heredado, would stand on end, knowing that from the ocean sat a stalker.
I try to find her. The promise of the unknown awoke a side of me desperate to be free. My calloused hands clutching frayed rope, swinging from starboard to port. The salt chaps my face, and I’ve lost weight, but every day I search. First the seven seas, then I will find seven more; los mares son tan grandes but I will find her. Some say I’ve gone mad, but that is short sighted, the mad are only mad from being cast to the side. So I eat an orange, fighting off the scurvy, yellow gums ache and my head is hazy but I will find her. And as I grow old, peg leg, eye patch, and a hook for a hand, collecting clichés instead of sight of land, I repeat my mantra over again, I will find her. As the stars stare bright into my skin, and as I pray for death to bring my miserable life to an end, I will find her. As my vision gets dark and I stand on the bow, I will find her. As I lean forward to let the sea eat me now, I will find her. And as I sink to the deep, leaving my ship at sea, and the pressure starts to force the life from my body, I will find her. She will come, in the moments before my demise, look into my eyes and tell me it’s alright. She will brush my hair and I will breathe in the sea, and she will kiss my eyes and tell me it’s alright.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Veneno
Homie’s too attached to past memories that look like all the birds he’s sweating now. Ella looks like she’s more Mary Magdalene before salvation than someone he wants to take back to home to mom. Those circles under her eyes are the same color as the ones that dot her arm are the same as the eastern sky at sunset. Todos los Reyes no tienen enough dinero to pay for that royal purple. Regardless, homie doesn’t care. ¡¿Do you, you love sick maricón!? Nah, El is too wrapped up inside his head staring at the white inside the crimson in her eyes, and at the blue that hands out at the center. Blue is the best I can do to help you out with the color, but homie sees the shore of the lake, seaweed included, the green hue shining through the almost clean agua. If those ojos are the lake, then it explains the cloud on top of them, but homie sees no gleam. He notices the glare of of her honey golden hair, and how las nalgas de ella bounce like lo-lo’s when she walks. She comes up to his scarred chest, and he only knows because after ten minutes his balls finally dropped and at this late night drug spot he took a walk over to her.
Honey had finished with the dealer in a lonely back room of the apartment (dude laid sweaty on the floor, more sucio than the rest of the room) and walked past the piles of basura towards a broken drywall panel. As she fumbled with a tourniquet, homie mustered up the courage to chase a little dragon with honey on his left. I thought homie looked pretty feo, his acne ridden skin turned into a lunar surface ever since puberty ended. He was lighter than the rest of la raza, a coconut turned inside out, white on the outside, brown underneath, and in the room filled with three junkies he looked more nark than down. He had a habit that would go unnoticed under his button downs and tight jeans. Business casual. So you can imagine the sight of this fancy fuck of a dude tying off honey’s arm. Yeah, he tied the knot and cooked the poison for her. And ella thanked him slowly once she had kicked off. Homie está enamorado. Homie es un tonto.
Numbers were exchanged, although they always met at the same spot. That dirty apartment where the bloodstains multiplied at the same rate as las cucarachas. She offered homie only seconds, sloppy and undignified, but he was a romantic and only wanted to sit by her side. He brought up possibilities of checking out a restaurant, eating food that didn’t come from a bag or microwave. She’d like that, I’m sure, pero the hunger wouldn’t come and even if she could feel her stomach she wouldn’t be able to get food past her swollen tongue. Homie wanted nothing more than copping a feel, but the gentleman in his head beat the vandal in his heart. As her sunken cheeks leaked streaks of shining drool from her bobbing head, as her shoulders lacked the strength to hold her arms up under her neck, and as her skin paled to match the powder (keeping the same piss yellow tint), he wondered what she felt like between the thighs.
Swallowing the violent images of her tied to a bed, fresh wounds slashed across her stomach, her toes curled and back arched in éxtasis, homie took a rain check, packed up his vice and left.
Not granting innocence, porque no one is, homie cut up lines of chiva and coats his sinuses. Eyes wide he lies on his couch, smelling the cleaning products he uses in the studio, trying to keep a sense of order. The piercing cut of the bleach would burn most peoples tear ducts, but not this dude. A bottle of Clorox comes second to only the dust. Don’t look directly into any surface of este piso or you might catch the reflection of your inner demons. His neurosis is another issue, and if homie stopped lying to himself he might be able to face it down. You could figure shit out, homie, if you laid of the junk. A stupid fucking word for your stupid fucking drogas. ¡Vete la chingada y tu caballo tambien! But I digress. The apartment in question is whiter than a junkise complexion and the leached tile floors make your footsteps sound unclean. The furniture is sparse and it’s just as white as everything else; the one couch sits awkwardly close to the useless TV (cable costing more than a half filled plastic baggie). He slept on the couch not having room for a nest to rest in. Homie sleeps only in appearance; closed eyes and heavy breathing, lack of consciousness, but a total lack of dreaming. And he rises from the dead like Jesus after three hours, puts another ironed shirt on and heads out to his nine to five.
Homie mans a forklift for a living. His ears are never ringing, because to the higher ups he’s just a number and a paycheck, one who will cycle out for a fresh face after he grows tired. They all do. You would too, if you spent a year lifting spare parts for someone or another. The boxes all look the same, and he follows a color code, yellow goes to the back, green is to the left, but brown is all anyone really ever sees. Homie spends half his day driving around a warehouse, breaks to have a cigarette, then spend the second half doing the same thing. One day a little while ago homie decided to start dipping into his stash at work. Fuck it, he thought, no one would notice if I did. So he’d suck a little into the length of his smoke, and let it smolder on his lunch break and give him some relief. The pack was half empty and so he would tuck the rest inside of the box, then hurry outside and suck down whatever he could. Most days he went unnoticed but today was different.
I could see it coming, and homie should have too, but as he enjoyed the burning opiate his boss came outside. The ball of a man had no way to differentiate his top from his bottom half, and his thin comb over was starting to reflect his other curvatures. Chiseled features were a dream, and hombre was long past them, nightmares of a failing marriage taking up too much of his time. Underneath his beet red face was pain from a miserable life, divorce, and undiscovered cancer, and this all showed itself outwardly when he talked with those below him on the totem pole.
“What the fuck is that smell?” El jefe demanded with full knowledge that it was something that would end in termination. Homie was about to say nothing and pitch the evidence, but the boss snatched it out of his mouth. Too doped up to snatch it back homie stared in amazement as el jefe busted it open and saw the powdered remnants. A brush of yellow powder dots the fat man’s sleeve, and homie fumbled with his pack, dropping the bag onto the pavement.
“You’re doing drugs?” This was a statement, not a question. But homie just grabbed the stash and ran as fast as his stoned legs could move. Dude looked like a drunk with even less coordination, and his zigzag pattern across the parking lot was punctuated with el jefe de grasa screaming “If you ever come back here I will call the cops!” He would have called them then if he could remember homie’s name, but that’s what the office life teaches you; only watch out for number one.
The drugs wore off after the run and a couple hours sitting in his white apartment. The white walls were so bright, and homie couldn’t stand seeing his reflection in the countertops, in the mirror, or in the dead-screen TV. The situation hit him, with his shit brown eyes popping out of his skull, that he had no source of income, and not only did he have bills to pay, but he had a habit to feed. He clutched the last of the eight ball he had tucked inside his pocket, and decided that he should get as much as he could before he defaulted. As he walked to the drug den, his fingers on the plastic, he spat in the dirty sidewalk. Not because he needed to, only because he could. The control made it easier to deal with the downward spiral. The neighborhood started to change, and instead of storefronts he saw cages keeping out the looters and the transitorios. The sounds of people died out, leaving only a couple sirens, and as he found the familiar drug spot he thought about the girl with the honey colored pelo. She would be in there, sucking dick for a dime bag, her bruised knees sitting next to a syringe and a lighter. She would come out of the back, and toss her honey hair before setting those blue ojos on him and resting in a corner. She would trace the porcelain of her skin up until the curve of her elbow, around the spotted fleshy spot and up onto her bicep. The loose skin around her shoulder would be begging to be brushed by his calloused hands as he tied the belt around her. He would ask her to go out to dinner, hoping for a buena noche after, but she would be off in another world and he would leave disappointed. This time would be different, he thought to himself as walked the stairs, a new fire in his eyes. He opened up the door and saw the dirty walls, covered in more blood than normal. He looked around the apartment, at the junkies in the corners; not a single one was breathing, and their chests were riddle with holes. There was a sound from the corner, and he saw honey sitting there, teeth clenched, holding her arm. You or I would be more cautious, seeing the bullet holes everywhere, but homie isn’t like us. No, hemos un poco sentido. Pero homie was still love sick, and blind to the gun resting on the floor.
“They tried to take my fucking stash. Those fucking assholes. They tried to take it while I was shooting up. I tried to stop them, but shit got out of hand. I just wanted to fix, man. Then all this shit started happening, and dude came out of the back waving his fucking gun. I don’t know what happened, I have no idea what happened. I just grabbed it…” Honey said the last sentence six or seven times, before homie stood up and moved away from the poisoned girl. Her sick sense of priorities reminded him of his own, and he kicked away the gun still looking at her arm. A ripped open abscess was leaking a viscous fluid, rojo y amarillo trickling down in a chunky stream. It was ripped open by a needle and now the apartment was in ruins. Homie was over it. He had perspective. You have perspective homie! Time to shape up! ¡Felicitaciones! He dug the bag out of his pocket, flipped it to the wounded bird (her one working wing was still clutching the other) and walked out. He walked down the street, past the dead shops, past the crack heads and drug dealers. He walked until he came to his sterile house, pulled out the bottle of bleach, and cleaned until he passed out.
Then he dreamed.
Honey had finished with the dealer in a lonely back room of the apartment (dude laid sweaty on the floor, more sucio than the rest of the room) and walked past the piles of basura towards a broken drywall panel. As she fumbled with a tourniquet, homie mustered up the courage to chase a little dragon with honey on his left. I thought homie looked pretty feo, his acne ridden skin turned into a lunar surface ever since puberty ended. He was lighter than the rest of la raza, a coconut turned inside out, white on the outside, brown underneath, and in the room filled with three junkies he looked more nark than down. He had a habit that would go unnoticed under his button downs and tight jeans. Business casual. So you can imagine the sight of this fancy fuck of a dude tying off honey’s arm. Yeah, he tied the knot and cooked the poison for her. And ella thanked him slowly once she had kicked off. Homie está enamorado. Homie es un tonto.
Numbers were exchanged, although they always met at the same spot. That dirty apartment where the bloodstains multiplied at the same rate as las cucarachas. She offered homie only seconds, sloppy and undignified, but he was a romantic and only wanted to sit by her side. He brought up possibilities of checking out a restaurant, eating food that didn’t come from a bag or microwave. She’d like that, I’m sure, pero the hunger wouldn’t come and even if she could feel her stomach she wouldn’t be able to get food past her swollen tongue. Homie wanted nothing more than copping a feel, but the gentleman in his head beat the vandal in his heart. As her sunken cheeks leaked streaks of shining drool from her bobbing head, as her shoulders lacked the strength to hold her arms up under her neck, and as her skin paled to match the powder (keeping the same piss yellow tint), he wondered what she felt like between the thighs.
Swallowing the violent images of her tied to a bed, fresh wounds slashed across her stomach, her toes curled and back arched in éxtasis, homie took a rain check, packed up his vice and left.
Not granting innocence, porque no one is, homie cut up lines of chiva and coats his sinuses. Eyes wide he lies on his couch, smelling the cleaning products he uses in the studio, trying to keep a sense of order. The piercing cut of the bleach would burn most peoples tear ducts, but not this dude. A bottle of Clorox comes second to only the dust. Don’t look directly into any surface of este piso or you might catch the reflection of your inner demons. His neurosis is another issue, and if homie stopped lying to himself he might be able to face it down. You could figure shit out, homie, if you laid of the junk. A stupid fucking word for your stupid fucking drogas. ¡Vete la chingada y tu caballo tambien! But I digress. The apartment in question is whiter than a junkise complexion and the leached tile floors make your footsteps sound unclean. The furniture is sparse and it’s just as white as everything else; the one couch sits awkwardly close to the useless TV (cable costing more than a half filled plastic baggie). He slept on the couch not having room for a nest to rest in. Homie sleeps only in appearance; closed eyes and heavy breathing, lack of consciousness, but a total lack of dreaming. And he rises from the dead like Jesus after three hours, puts another ironed shirt on and heads out to his nine to five.
Homie mans a forklift for a living. His ears are never ringing, because to the higher ups he’s just a number and a paycheck, one who will cycle out for a fresh face after he grows tired. They all do. You would too, if you spent a year lifting spare parts for someone or another. The boxes all look the same, and he follows a color code, yellow goes to the back, green is to the left, but brown is all anyone really ever sees. Homie spends half his day driving around a warehouse, breaks to have a cigarette, then spend the second half doing the same thing. One day a little while ago homie decided to start dipping into his stash at work. Fuck it, he thought, no one would notice if I did. So he’d suck a little into the length of his smoke, and let it smolder on his lunch break and give him some relief. The pack was half empty and so he would tuck the rest inside of the box, then hurry outside and suck down whatever he could. Most days he went unnoticed but today was different.
I could see it coming, and homie should have too, but as he enjoyed the burning opiate his boss came outside. The ball of a man had no way to differentiate his top from his bottom half, and his thin comb over was starting to reflect his other curvatures. Chiseled features were a dream, and hombre was long past them, nightmares of a failing marriage taking up too much of his time. Underneath his beet red face was pain from a miserable life, divorce, and undiscovered cancer, and this all showed itself outwardly when he talked with those below him on the totem pole.
“What the fuck is that smell?” El jefe demanded with full knowledge that it was something that would end in termination. Homie was about to say nothing and pitch the evidence, but the boss snatched it out of his mouth. Too doped up to snatch it back homie stared in amazement as el jefe busted it open and saw the powdered remnants. A brush of yellow powder dots the fat man’s sleeve, and homie fumbled with his pack, dropping the bag onto the pavement.
“You’re doing drugs?” This was a statement, not a question. But homie just grabbed the stash and ran as fast as his stoned legs could move. Dude looked like a drunk with even less coordination, and his zigzag pattern across the parking lot was punctuated with el jefe de grasa screaming “If you ever come back here I will call the cops!” He would have called them then if he could remember homie’s name, but that’s what the office life teaches you; only watch out for number one.
The drugs wore off after the run and a couple hours sitting in his white apartment. The white walls were so bright, and homie couldn’t stand seeing his reflection in the countertops, in the mirror, or in the dead-screen TV. The situation hit him, with his shit brown eyes popping out of his skull, that he had no source of income, and not only did he have bills to pay, but he had a habit to feed. He clutched the last of the eight ball he had tucked inside his pocket, and decided that he should get as much as he could before he defaulted. As he walked to the drug den, his fingers on the plastic, he spat in the dirty sidewalk. Not because he needed to, only because he could. The control made it easier to deal with the downward spiral. The neighborhood started to change, and instead of storefronts he saw cages keeping out the looters and the transitorios. The sounds of people died out, leaving only a couple sirens, and as he found the familiar drug spot he thought about the girl with the honey colored pelo. She would be in there, sucking dick for a dime bag, her bruised knees sitting next to a syringe and a lighter. She would come out of the back, and toss her honey hair before setting those blue ojos on him and resting in a corner. She would trace the porcelain of her skin up until the curve of her elbow, around the spotted fleshy spot and up onto her bicep. The loose skin around her shoulder would be begging to be brushed by his calloused hands as he tied the belt around her. He would ask her to go out to dinner, hoping for a buena noche after, but she would be off in another world and he would leave disappointed. This time would be different, he thought to himself as walked the stairs, a new fire in his eyes. He opened up the door and saw the dirty walls, covered in more blood than normal. He looked around the apartment, at the junkies in the corners; not a single one was breathing, and their chests were riddle with holes. There was a sound from the corner, and he saw honey sitting there, teeth clenched, holding her arm. You or I would be more cautious, seeing the bullet holes everywhere, but homie isn’t like us. No, hemos un poco sentido. Pero homie was still love sick, and blind to the gun resting on the floor.
“They tried to take my fucking stash. Those fucking assholes. They tried to take it while I was shooting up. I tried to stop them, but shit got out of hand. I just wanted to fix, man. Then all this shit started happening, and dude came out of the back waving his fucking gun. I don’t know what happened, I have no idea what happened. I just grabbed it…” Honey said the last sentence six or seven times, before homie stood up and moved away from the poisoned girl. Her sick sense of priorities reminded him of his own, and he kicked away the gun still looking at her arm. A ripped open abscess was leaking a viscous fluid, rojo y amarillo trickling down in a chunky stream. It was ripped open by a needle and now the apartment was in ruins. Homie was over it. He had perspective. You have perspective homie! Time to shape up! ¡Felicitaciones! He dug the bag out of his pocket, flipped it to the wounded bird (her one working wing was still clutching the other) and walked out. He walked down the street, past the dead shops, past the crack heads and drug dealers. He walked until he came to his sterile house, pulled out the bottle of bleach, and cleaned until he passed out.
Then he dreamed.
Monday, November 15, 2010
X
A kid I went to school with died. A kid that I spent at least an hour with every day. I may not have been friends with him, I may not have really liked him, but I tolerated him, and he tolerated me, and even while most people in school called me a faggot or other such names, he was usually cool. In middle school I would have spitting contests with Bryan. Who could spit the farthest, who could spray their saliva the widest, who could freak girls out the most. He was the first kid I heard use the term “eat out.” And in context back then it sounded as awful as it does now. In 8th grade he made up a rap about me, and even when it started out kind of douchy, it rounded itself out with the word friend. When we walked at middle school graduation, we had a few words, just between us.
Our moms both took us on a trip to Washington DC. It was a class trip, but being that our mothers were there, it was kind of expected that we talk to each other a few times. And that was the most that came out of that. Our mothers hated each other, both being from opposite camps of “boys will be boys” with his mom being the much more liberal, let-them-make-mistakes-as-they-please camp. Bryan and I were in all sorts of extra curricular activities together, so it was always amusing seeing our parents together. The shallow hellos, the sideways glances, the awkwardness of untold bitching that sat over both of them. I’m sure Bryan got the same speech I got over and over, “His mother is a horrible woman. I can’t stand her!”
In high school, people are polarized. Bryan was to become the class clown, his fluffy brown hair bouncing on top of his slack-jawed face. He wasn’t unattractive, but his charisma was what struck people. I was a nerd, a drama geek, and a band geek. I like to think that I was the coolest of the uncool, but I think that just exemplifies the follies of high school males. Bryan would have been my total opposite as a goof-off ne’er-do-well, but still we were both in jazz. One of the things we had in common was a love for our instruments. Guitar on my part, bass on his. For almost 7 years, we sat next to one another, playing Baise, Santana, Ellington, not to mention red hot chili peppers….
Bryan isn’t the first person I’ve known who’s died. A crush from high school, a couple acquaintances, luckily no best friends. But still, I think about the ways that I could have been next. I used to do just as many drugs as Bryan. I used to sell them. I used to want to drop out or not go to school. I moved back to that awful suburb and started abusing prescription pills in my basement. I almost got arrested on a paraphernalia charge. My life is a bunch of “almosts” and “could haves” and I’m lucky, and thankful that I got away. Bryan wasn’t so lucky. He spent six months in a county jail doing time for a crime that I have committed, got out, and downed too much of something to kill the light. He was free, but wanted to be freer. His last words to the public: “I got a message from god last night… its all over.” I got a message from god, and it said to not fuck up like that. There were people asking him to call them. There was plenty of support, and while I wasn’t part of it, it wouldn’t have made a difference if I was. There are some things that we’ll all blame ourselves for. Not being there, not saying the words we had to say. I cant say that I have those regrets. Bryan and I hadn’t spoken in almost 4 years. His life was something I got second hand and only afterwards. His downfall, and my triumph stand in out dichotomy that has been and now is only magnified. He sleeps, I breathe. I may be sad for his death, but I’m glad he got what he wanted. I’m depressed because it could have been my family surrounding that casket years ago. But it’s not. And I swear to any god that will listen that it never will be. It never will be. It never fucking will be.
Our moms both took us on a trip to Washington DC. It was a class trip, but being that our mothers were there, it was kind of expected that we talk to each other a few times. And that was the most that came out of that. Our mothers hated each other, both being from opposite camps of “boys will be boys” with his mom being the much more liberal, let-them-make-mistakes-as-they-please camp. Bryan and I were in all sorts of extra curricular activities together, so it was always amusing seeing our parents together. The shallow hellos, the sideways glances, the awkwardness of untold bitching that sat over both of them. I’m sure Bryan got the same speech I got over and over, “His mother is a horrible woman. I can’t stand her!”
In high school, people are polarized. Bryan was to become the class clown, his fluffy brown hair bouncing on top of his slack-jawed face. He wasn’t unattractive, but his charisma was what struck people. I was a nerd, a drama geek, and a band geek. I like to think that I was the coolest of the uncool, but I think that just exemplifies the follies of high school males. Bryan would have been my total opposite as a goof-off ne’er-do-well, but still we were both in jazz. One of the things we had in common was a love for our instruments. Guitar on my part, bass on his. For almost 7 years, we sat next to one another, playing Baise, Santana, Ellington, not to mention red hot chili peppers….
Bryan isn’t the first person I’ve known who’s died. A crush from high school, a couple acquaintances, luckily no best friends. But still, I think about the ways that I could have been next. I used to do just as many drugs as Bryan. I used to sell them. I used to want to drop out or not go to school. I moved back to that awful suburb and started abusing prescription pills in my basement. I almost got arrested on a paraphernalia charge. My life is a bunch of “almosts” and “could haves” and I’m lucky, and thankful that I got away. Bryan wasn’t so lucky. He spent six months in a county jail doing time for a crime that I have committed, got out, and downed too much of something to kill the light. He was free, but wanted to be freer. His last words to the public: “I got a message from god last night… its all over.” I got a message from god, and it said to not fuck up like that. There were people asking him to call them. There was plenty of support, and while I wasn’t part of it, it wouldn’t have made a difference if I was. There are some things that we’ll all blame ourselves for. Not being there, not saying the words we had to say. I cant say that I have those regrets. Bryan and I hadn’t spoken in almost 4 years. His life was something I got second hand and only afterwards. His downfall, and my triumph stand in out dichotomy that has been and now is only magnified. He sleeps, I breathe. I may be sad for his death, but I’m glad he got what he wanted. I’m depressed because it could have been my family surrounding that casket years ago. But it’s not. And I swear to any god that will listen that it never will be. It never will be. It never fucking will be.
Friday, November 12, 2010
How to Eat 3000 Calories a Day (And Not Gain a Pound)
So your skinny ass wants to live like a typical fat ass American? You want to have a protruding, greasy stomach with a deep sea oil well for a belly button? You want to ride a rascal and shop at Walmart and complain about how them “jap cars” are too damn small, and own a Hummer? Well, too fucking bad. Your wiry frame would never support that and you will forever be a twig. But that doesn’t mean you cant eat like the typical American! The intake will be hard at first, but you should give it the ol’ college try, because GOD BLESS THIS FAT FUCKING NATION!
First things first, you have to realize the initial irony of what you are doing. Perhaps irony doesn’t quite encompass the sad (pathetic, really) reality of keeping tabs on your caloric intake and nutritional information, even while the grease rolls down your sunken cheeks and onto your flat(ish) stomach. The real fatties will laugh at you, as you must snicker at others when the time comes. Although, you are attempting to eat a years worth of a North Vietnamese rationed calories in a day, you still have to read all of those boring numbers that mean nothing to the standard American. But while you will look like a yuppie, granola eating, rice cake fucker, the information you seek will aid you immensely. You should know that a package of poptarts is 420 calories, compared to the 540 from the same amount of donuts. A hundred calories here and there will make all the difference in the end. Use this knowledge and plan accordingly.
Breakfast
“The most important meal of the day” is it’s title for a reason. This is the way you start off, and sets the tone for your commitment for the rest of the day. It will be too early when you wake up, because chances are your life is hectic. Hence the heroine chic look you’ve got going on there you fucking twig. It should make you sick to look at you in the morning, those deep purple cow tongue bags under your eyes. Some may find your appearance “sexy” or even “healthy,” but those people are communists. Filthy, filthy communists. Since it’s early, though, you will need caffine, and none of that regular roast, drips for an hour bullshit. You need a triple latte with whole milk. Whole milk is the key here, because in order to balance the cattle prod shock to your metabolism, you need all the extra calories you can get. You probably don’t need me to tell you not to drink caffeine on an empty stomach, do you?
It’s a good idea to get something vile into your pit first, otherwise you’ll get the dry heaves and risk setting yourself back a stomach full. This is where those handy donuts come in. When you’re starting off eating like a disgusting pig, you should use those magical rings of carbs and fat to get you acclimated to the harsh commitment you have made. The first one is delicious. The second one builds character. Later, once your morning can involve real food, switch it up to the sausage, egg and cheese on a bagel. Another hundred calories, and some much needed grease. Don’t neglect any of that scalding hot bean juice with the cattle discharge. Drink it quick or it gets cold, and you might throw some out. Although being wasteful may help you feel more American, it wont make you feel like a disgusting blob, and that is really what we’re shooting for. You should probably smoke a cigarette at this point. It will settle your stretching stomach, and calm you down.
Cigarettes
The stress of forced eating will make a pack of smokes a necessity. Nicotine is a wonderful drug, and it is completely safe. Never let anyone tell you otherwise. You should pace yourself, only smoke when you:
-finish eating
-are walking from the train
-are on breaks at work
-are inbetween classes
-are bored and not currently eating.
If your state has an indoor smoking ban, get your food to go, and smoke while you walk and eat. It is a trick maneuver, but with time you will come to master it. Practice makes perfect, and perfect is one pack for every one day.
Lunch
KFC made lunch easy for the new power eater (you, you anorexic looking diva). The idea of an easy to eat chicken sandwich is great, but then they took it a step farther for you, you crybaby-barely-eats! Two deep fried chicken breasts for the buns. Cheese and bacon and mystery mayonnaise sauce for the fixings. And it comes with a large drink and potato wedges! All of this AND it’s a great 1290 calories! That’s more than a third of your day, and we’re in the home stretch! While eating lunch, it is probably a good time to take stock in your life, and figure out what all this will accomplish.
Moral.
Why are you eating like you just spent ten months in an Iraqi prison? What made you want to live an extra large lifestyle inside of a child’s medium body? Think back to the last time you put something on and it didn’t fit. Chances are you don’t remember that ever happening. And the last time it did, it was because you got taller, not wider. You might have clothes that still fit you that you wore in elementary school. All these things are a trophy to your failures. You gain no mass, muscle or fat, no matter how hard you seem to try. You simply stay at a constant, boring state of stagnancy, moving not at all, until the end comes. And when it comes they will bury you in the suit you wore on your first date. When you were 15. Society pressure young men and women to stay skinny, to look good, and to be healthy, but all these messages get drowned out by everyone else buying into them. If you’ve reached this point, you’ve had at least one person say “oh! You’re so lucky to not gain weight. I would kill to be like you” or call you a slew of names in reference to your insultingly overactive metabolism. These people do not know the struggle that it takes to stay awake. Your blood sugar crashes at the drop of a hat, and 3 meals a day is a laughable under calculation. Walking around with snacks, making sure that you never eat celery for fear of the negative calories, never getting the body you want because you are forced to have the body you have now. This is what they are “envious” of. The grass is always greener, and while they pick at their salad, wishing they could eat a steak, you should be tallying up the numbers, trying to make it to an arbitrary goal. Because after the caffeine, nicotine, and natural metabolism, you’ll continue to stay the same size. But at least you’ll feel like a fat ass.
Dinner
Well congratulations. You’ve made it to the final meal of the day. Assuming you’ve snuck an extra soda (a liter of Mountain Dew, 880 calories, a day keeps the… something away), you’ve met your goal. Passed it by 60 calories even. You’re blood is now 30% grease, and your pores will never forgive you for the salt, fat, grease, caffeine, smoke, and whatever stress your life is causing you. If you don’t hate yourself, you’re not really a God fearing American, so go back and try again tomorrow. Either way, it’s time to unwind with the last supper.
Honestly it doesn’t matter what you eat. Steak and potatoes would make you pretty Yankee-doodle-dandy, but so would wrapping yourself a burrito up in an American flag. After your first day, it might be easier to skip the meal and head straight into dessert. A pint of ice cream is a perfect nail in the coffin, and as you sit back, spoon in hand, with your stomach screaming death metal lyrics at the rest of your body, something will hit you. Your soul will sit there staring back at you, and you will realize that all is for not. That what you eat will mean shit, and you leave nothing more than an undersized jar of ashes in the end. So enjoy the company, and feast upon your feelings.
First things first, you have to realize the initial irony of what you are doing. Perhaps irony doesn’t quite encompass the sad (pathetic, really) reality of keeping tabs on your caloric intake and nutritional information, even while the grease rolls down your sunken cheeks and onto your flat(ish) stomach. The real fatties will laugh at you, as you must snicker at others when the time comes. Although, you are attempting to eat a years worth of a North Vietnamese rationed calories in a day, you still have to read all of those boring numbers that mean nothing to the standard American. But while you will look like a yuppie, granola eating, rice cake fucker, the information you seek will aid you immensely. You should know that a package of poptarts is 420 calories, compared to the 540 from the same amount of donuts. A hundred calories here and there will make all the difference in the end. Use this knowledge and plan accordingly.
Breakfast
“The most important meal of the day” is it’s title for a reason. This is the way you start off, and sets the tone for your commitment for the rest of the day. It will be too early when you wake up, because chances are your life is hectic. Hence the heroine chic look you’ve got going on there you fucking twig. It should make you sick to look at you in the morning, those deep purple cow tongue bags under your eyes. Some may find your appearance “sexy” or even “healthy,” but those people are communists. Filthy, filthy communists. Since it’s early, though, you will need caffine, and none of that regular roast, drips for an hour bullshit. You need a triple latte with whole milk. Whole milk is the key here, because in order to balance the cattle prod shock to your metabolism, you need all the extra calories you can get. You probably don’t need me to tell you not to drink caffeine on an empty stomach, do you?
It’s a good idea to get something vile into your pit first, otherwise you’ll get the dry heaves and risk setting yourself back a stomach full. This is where those handy donuts come in. When you’re starting off eating like a disgusting pig, you should use those magical rings of carbs and fat to get you acclimated to the harsh commitment you have made. The first one is delicious. The second one builds character. Later, once your morning can involve real food, switch it up to the sausage, egg and cheese on a bagel. Another hundred calories, and some much needed grease. Don’t neglect any of that scalding hot bean juice with the cattle discharge. Drink it quick or it gets cold, and you might throw some out. Although being wasteful may help you feel more American, it wont make you feel like a disgusting blob, and that is really what we’re shooting for. You should probably smoke a cigarette at this point. It will settle your stretching stomach, and calm you down.
Cigarettes
The stress of forced eating will make a pack of smokes a necessity. Nicotine is a wonderful drug, and it is completely safe. Never let anyone tell you otherwise. You should pace yourself, only smoke when you:
-finish eating
-are walking from the train
-are on breaks at work
-are inbetween classes
-are bored and not currently eating.
If your state has an indoor smoking ban, get your food to go, and smoke while you walk and eat. It is a trick maneuver, but with time you will come to master it. Practice makes perfect, and perfect is one pack for every one day.
Lunch
KFC made lunch easy for the new power eater (you, you anorexic looking diva). The idea of an easy to eat chicken sandwich is great, but then they took it a step farther for you, you crybaby-barely-eats! Two deep fried chicken breasts for the buns. Cheese and bacon and mystery mayonnaise sauce for the fixings. And it comes with a large drink and potato wedges! All of this AND it’s a great 1290 calories! That’s more than a third of your day, and we’re in the home stretch! While eating lunch, it is probably a good time to take stock in your life, and figure out what all this will accomplish.
Moral.
Why are you eating like you just spent ten months in an Iraqi prison? What made you want to live an extra large lifestyle inside of a child’s medium body? Think back to the last time you put something on and it didn’t fit. Chances are you don’t remember that ever happening. And the last time it did, it was because you got taller, not wider. You might have clothes that still fit you that you wore in elementary school. All these things are a trophy to your failures. You gain no mass, muscle or fat, no matter how hard you seem to try. You simply stay at a constant, boring state of stagnancy, moving not at all, until the end comes. And when it comes they will bury you in the suit you wore on your first date. When you were 15. Society pressure young men and women to stay skinny, to look good, and to be healthy, but all these messages get drowned out by everyone else buying into them. If you’ve reached this point, you’ve had at least one person say “oh! You’re so lucky to not gain weight. I would kill to be like you” or call you a slew of names in reference to your insultingly overactive metabolism. These people do not know the struggle that it takes to stay awake. Your blood sugar crashes at the drop of a hat, and 3 meals a day is a laughable under calculation. Walking around with snacks, making sure that you never eat celery for fear of the negative calories, never getting the body you want because you are forced to have the body you have now. This is what they are “envious” of. The grass is always greener, and while they pick at their salad, wishing they could eat a steak, you should be tallying up the numbers, trying to make it to an arbitrary goal. Because after the caffeine, nicotine, and natural metabolism, you’ll continue to stay the same size. But at least you’ll feel like a fat ass.
Dinner
Well congratulations. You’ve made it to the final meal of the day. Assuming you’ve snuck an extra soda (a liter of Mountain Dew, 880 calories, a day keeps the… something away), you’ve met your goal. Passed it by 60 calories even. You’re blood is now 30% grease, and your pores will never forgive you for the salt, fat, grease, caffeine, smoke, and whatever stress your life is causing you. If you don’t hate yourself, you’re not really a God fearing American, so go back and try again tomorrow. Either way, it’s time to unwind with the last supper.
Honestly it doesn’t matter what you eat. Steak and potatoes would make you pretty Yankee-doodle-dandy, but so would wrapping yourself a burrito up in an American flag. After your first day, it might be easier to skip the meal and head straight into dessert. A pint of ice cream is a perfect nail in the coffin, and as you sit back, spoon in hand, with your stomach screaming death metal lyrics at the rest of your body, something will hit you. Your soul will sit there staring back at you, and you will realize that all is for not. That what you eat will mean shit, and you leave nothing more than an undersized jar of ashes in the end. So enjoy the company, and feast upon your feelings.
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