Every Sock

– – – – –

Today’s selections were featured in “The Weekly Cossacks”, as well as “Gutter Burger Magazine” and “The Washington Post”.

– – – – –

Diagnosis

I have depression

anxiety

sex addiction

trichotillomania

skin picking disorder

unwanted thoughts syndrome

delusions of grandeur

suicidal tendencies

an empty bank account

a bow-legged stance

hips that don’t quit

Rumours on vinyl

a closet full of child mannequins

Ikea furnishings

an endless supply of boogers and cum

candy

two lamps that work

one lamp that doesn’t

two clocks that work

one clock that doesn’t

a repulsion towards lists

wine I left in my friend’s fucking car

two ex-boyfriends

a thousand ex-flings

the velvet rage

a regal gift card

fun socks

house socks

reg socks

immaculate feet

a 2004 Toyota Highlander

some ratty wigs

a combative relationship with AT&T

four bags of german gummies

a quarry of regret

a canyon of self-doubt

a trench of straight-up feelings

iridescent white boy eyes

no prospects

no hope

no love

no god

no thyroid……

………………….

I’ll have the filet o fish, please.

– – – – –

Every Sock

Imagine

every sock you’ve ever cum in

wants to kill you

so you

stop

buying

socks

but then it’s like

fuck,

your feet,

they’re so cold

so you consider going to the sock store

AGAIN

and even the thought

is just so

DAUNTING

but what are you supposed to do?

Not wear socks?

Ever again?

It’s so fucking cold

and you need something

to cum in.

So you buy new socks

but this time

you ask,

“Hey

what if

later on

I decide

that I wanna throw you away

and you decide

that you wanna kill me?

What IF, ya know?

Do you think that could happen?

Do you think

you’d ever

wanna kill me?”

but then you must remember

it doesn’t matter

what the socks say back

because

they

are just

socks.

– – – – –

Cheers

fuck your fuckin cummy

tits

leaking runny eggs

under water

on fire

naked

sobbing

sucking off

George Wendt

and

fuck it,

the entire cast of Cheers

while your asshole

blossoms outward

oozing juices

red

and brown

and your dog

laps it all up

while you piss on the floor

and drool down your

neck

you jizz-stained dilettante

mephitic bundle of rape

busted barnyard bitch

sweaty slab of excrement

shard of stunted puss meat

you lava lamp cunt

jk lol u up?

– – – – –

Norm

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Brief, Trite, Poop Ramblings on Depression

Imagine every morning as you wake up, someone takes a shit on your forehead.

Just as your eyes are crustily prying open and you waft into consciousness, a big wet turd greets you for the day. And instead of screaming in disgust and anger you just wipe it away routinely and proceed to the bathroom to brush your teeth. And every so often, scattered throughout the day, at random intervals, poop is flung from out of nowhere right in your face and you just have to pretend like it didn’t happen.

No one else around you is getting doody-bombed every hour so they can’t really relate. Whenever you try to confide in someone about the constant dooky-flingings, it just seems like whining to them.

turds are coming

That’s what depression is for me. An overwhelming sadness that washes over my body throughout my daily life. I could have a wonderful lunch with a friend, be feeling light-hearted and level, and suddenly without explanation the tide rolls in causing confusion and misery. Raping me in the feelings with a gangrenous dick of bitter hatred and shame.

It’s like a contradictory drill sergeant commanding me to waste my life in a toilet of angst.

BEE0vhzCUAETmLe

I know that misery can turn into a self-righteous cycle wherein you lie in bed all day and make yourself sad again and again by embracing your depression as a kind of a character trait but please believe me when I say that I truly do not want to be a depressed person. I desperately want to be happy, or not even happy, just NOT DEPRESSED.

But I don’t have a say in the matter. Depression is like a voice-over written by somebody else. I plead and plead with the director to take out the fucking voice-over because it’s making the movie shitty. But he’s a hack who went to NYFA so he places narration over every boring scene in the annoying film of my life.

depression vo 1

depression vo 2

depression vo 3

depression vo 4

depression vo 5

Sometimes my only choice is to embrace the depression. To melt into the quicksand and lie slothful in sadness. It’s like I’m wrestling with the devil until I just can’t anymore, so I pause the match so that the two of us can lie in bed together and watch the entire “Gay & Lesbian” section on Netflix.

longhorns

I often struggle with figuring out if my depression is something that happens to me that I could eventually overcome, or if it’s just how my brain is wired. I can only hope it’s the former.

Meds


A Day in the Life of Meh

Here’s what my typical day consists of:

I wake up with the sun dripping golden dewdrops of light upon my freckled brow through the silken slits of my curtain.

bedman

I greet the morning like an old friend as I leap out of bed and swim through my morning routine. After I’m bewashed and beclothed, I exit my apartment and suck a big breath of Earth’s rich and life-giving air into my grateful lungs. I embark on my day with a skip in my step and a smile warming my face. Here I come, world!

bedman

A lovely little cafe shines in the near distance. As I gleefully hop towards it, I pass a decrepit hobo, urine-soaked and emitting an infernal stench, toxic as turpentine. I stop to pity the man with a condescending smirk and hand him a dime from the depths of my khaki pocket. He looks up at me with dead downtrodden eyes and in a perfunctory and monotone fashion utters, “God bless ya.”

I flash a smile and with the skip returning to my step I continue towards the cafe knowing that there truly is a God that shines his light of peace and goodness upon all of us.

bedman

In the cafe as I nibble at my dry leaf salad, I am approached by a tall slender man in sunglasses and a beret. He is a world-famous photographer and wishes to base his new series on my perfect face and body. He calls me his muse and begs that I allow him to photograph me. I say “Okay but you’ll have to work around my schedule”. He is extremely grateful as he bows to me and exits the cafe. I am stuffed after only two bites of my food and exit shortly thereafter. A wonderful meal.

bedman

I head over to the Random House headquarters where I churn out award-winning novels for an unspeakable amount of wealth and fame and respect. Today I am working on a story about a man who finds an ancient treasure in his son’s sandbox as a metaphor for the little things in life being what truly matters.

bedman

After a rewarding day of spouting life-affirming cliches onto the page, I yawn and look at the clock. 8 p.m.! It’s time to go to bed and go to sleep! A couple of the other novelists beg me to come out and drink with them but I tell them that I don’t need outside substances to make me happy. I’m content just to be me.

bedman

I walk back into my apartment feeling a great sense of accomplishment for the day. As I lie down in bed and drift off to sleep, my mind becomes a blank canvas for all the wonderful dream-beasts and childhood memories to paint with their essence. I am one with the universe.

bedman