'I'm pretending to be thankful for the convoluted series of flashbacks
I'm having now' – we're stoned, Eric has a bowl of chips on
his stomach - 'of the time my cock was stuck in another dimension -
I find myself now appreciating its navigational skills.'
'Shut up, haha.'
'I have such a strong dependency on the fragments, mainly, of video games.
'Just the beautiful fragments,' he adds.
He's too stoned to play video games in their entirety. He starts in the middle
of levels; blinking, time has elapsed and he's battling the final boss.
He retches inappropriately.
I'm squinting long and hard at the AK47 propped up against the television set: yeah, looking at it this way, it seems pretty insane.
Don't look at me that way!
We are bank robbers. We smoke a lot of pot.
'Eating these chips and feeling it on my tongue, it's like splashing a
fart – splashing many farts – on a big, old blimp.'
'I'd like to animate a tomato and splice it with artificial intelligence.'
'They don't make 'em the way they used to, do they?'
We talk about chips a lot.
My boyfriend's cock is pierced in a hundred places.
His cock therefore whistles. The inadequate terms he uses for his singing,
spade-shaped cock: 'Farmer.' 'Karaoke master.' 'Singing upright gentleman digger.' And one I could never understand: 'Nazi nigger.'
'Its health benefits through osmosis. Fucking's.'
The piercings precipitate the osmosis.
'A sock's burger retention – if one were to stuff a sock with a burger –
I'd appreciate such levels of perseverance.'
'Of the type of sock that retains. That doesn't leak burger.'
I'm so stoned, and I have a headache. It's effervescing. My head's
shampooing itself with a crowbar. It likes to self-medicate.
I think the brutality is unnecessary.
'I'm gonna sit outside,' he says. I see that he cannot get up.
'I think,' he says, 'I think for one's butt to freeze on cold stone is very wrong.'
'You can sit on the hammock.'
'I hate it when you say that.'
'I can sit on a hammock.'
'No one can. It's not a hammock if you're allowed to do that.'
Our human ancestors had whiled away their time deciding
whether to watch bacteria rotate on their dingy personal belongings
the whole day long, or whether to just fuck instead.
Such machinations also happen to be my and Eric's forte.
He's retching again. Inappropriately.
'I find it medically accurate that Tetris blocks squelch when they land.'