The light in my room went out days ago. Maybe weeks. I can’t remember a time it stayed alive for very long. I collect cheap light bulbs, the ones you can find at Dollarama designated to the spot between ramekins and nail polish remover. I have boxes and boxes of bulbs somewhere in my house. At the back of the cabinet beneath the sink, maybe. I haven’t properly looked back there for even longer than my light’s been out, but I know for a matter of actual fucking fact that most of the sponges in that cabinet have vanished into thin, stupid air just like all of my nice socks. The only wearable ones I’ve got left are the prison jumpsuit orange socks from Skyzone — a keepsake from when my little brother served time at the trampoline inferno. His job was to stand in a corner all day and keep an eye out for people fighting or screwing. You’d be really surprised to hear about the things people get up to with strangers in plain sight. Or maybe you wouldn’t. The socks are halfway decent if you can get past what they actually look like. They show no signs of deterioration and I can even appreciate the grip at the bottom, a literal step by step reminder that slipping and dying is a couple inches of a smooth surface away.
I don’t need the light above me all that bad. I’ve got a lamp — one whose bulb has been in there for years, although saying so makes me a little wary because I might jinx it and then it’ll go out and then I can forget about crossing paths with another bulb that’ll be anywhere near as true to me. But I’m saying so anyway because daring fate to fuck me over is something I can’t help myself from doing.
Here are a few other things I do: lie in bed during the day for more hours than I’ll ever be willing to admit, right hand clutched to my iPhone 6s, alternating between Instagram and YouTube every four to six minutes. There are a few detours to Facebook every now and again, mostly to take a peek at any updates to J and M’s profiles and swipe through their photos for the millionth time. Once in a while, I’ll throw up a selfie or a birthday shout out, and later on I’ll interrupt whatever video on eyebrows I’m in the middle of to see how many people have liked it. My last post — a birthday tribute to my younger sister — accrued 28 likes and reactions. It’s a little hard to guess who’ll leave me a reaction as opposed to a simple like, but if I had to piece together a spartan pattern I’d say most of them generally come from female friends, guys who’ve licked my pussy, and guys who want to lick my pussy.
J is M’s friend. He’s hotter than M but much less beautiful. If you want to know how that works you’re asking the wrong person. J is the kind of gorgeous that might actually make someone keel over and die. He’s the kind of heat you’d live through without cracking open the window because when he leaves, the sweat on your body is the only proof he was ever around. J knows it, too. He goads you with his virility and promise of sex. M, on the other hand, is sweet and quiet. He says he’s in an open relationship but he’s never put his lips on me. Most of the time I have no remote idea what there is to like about him; he wears clothes he finds on the street, and he happens to have a patchy strain of alopecia that’s taken his right eyebrow as collateral. But, shit, I love M. I really think I love M. I stayed with him for a week once and I could have slept with him if I had worked up the nerve. But he’s the kind of human male who never makes a move out of a concept some call “respect”. What a crock of shit. M really is sweet, so abusively saccharine in the listless way he pulls out a pair of recycled wine glasses that his girlfriend’s biologist parents gave him. If you look closely between the sheets of glass you can see tiny bits of paper that someone wrote the secret to happiness to. M! What a skinny little perfect shit who has the best taste in music. Not that I’d ever tell him. That’s the sort compliment you save for a spouse or someone who pulls you out to dance in the rain. Me and M might get married one day if he never finds out all the things J did to my body. And then I’ll tell him about all the dreams I keep having about him.
I ate two donuts today from the best donut shop in the western hemisphere. Honey glazed and salted caramel. If you think I’m going to do something like tell you what shop it was, not only are you mistake, you also risk of being a little boring. And boring someone is just about the worst thing you can do to them. Information isn’t meant to be shared — not all of it and certainly not with the masses. The best things in your life should be gifted to the best people in your life. If there’s a dearth around worthy souls in your circle, keep your mouth shut and experience the greatest pleasure of all: having something all for yourself
The donuts didn’t go down well. I’ve got heartburn. And maybe some thyroid issues. I don’t know. I’ll have to see a doctor sometime.