ID. by *********

MONDAY MORNING. A white apartment along I-95, a white boxy building encompassed by palm trees, a white sky of pure cloud overlooking that building, overlooking an overpass, in a suburban community, in Boca Raton.

You’ve earned this. This is what you get for your work, your trouble. (You could take this town, easily. Quite easily.)

You’re on the patio, listening to the radio, listening to the jerky drum beat of Radiohead’s Airbag, listening to your lover beckon for you to reenter the flat, listening attentively, listening and smiling at the sound of her voice, smiling at her pleading.

Back inside some low-fi VHS dream is playing on the TV, and she’s laying there on the carpeted floor, 145 pounds of Venezuelan ass and attitude, touching herself, watching you watching her from the other side of the patio’s sliding glass door. She reclines against the foot of the sofa and looks up at the ceiling. “Right here,” she says, “I want it right here.” She closes her eyes and bites her lip in anticipation of you, spreading her legs. And like any animal provided the right stimuli, you go. She gets on her knees, you loosen the shirt tie that you spent the last ten minutes doing up just right (fuck that) and G E T  T O  I T.

Yeah, you’re really going all in; this is an experiment in how deep this bitch runs. So far so good. She groans as you get her guts, titters, chokes, makes little noises here and there: you can only assume she’s enjoying it as much as you are (As it were). Yes, there can be no doubt. You give her a break to let her catch her breath. “Well,” she says, teary eyes still closed, catching her breath, “Don’t be shy.”

 

 

TUESDAY. Work is insufferable. In conference room purgatory, you blankly stare at the two pieces of soulless corporate art on the back wall; overpriced photography of a beach in The Keys. What bullshit. Seven hundred dollars worth of bullshit on a conference room wall as you and your coworkers sit there discussing how to spend money enough to fund a small African nation for a year. You’re spending this money on legacy hardware that will be obsolete in 3 month’s time. (Fuck it.)

And amidst all this bullshit, you fondly reminisce about the night before, the taste of the Venezuelan still on your lips and cotton-mouthed tongue and your taste in her mouth likewise. And with that, your eyes drift toward something worth looking at. There she is, a sight for bloodshot eyes hidden behind transition lenses staring at sunlight, but she ignores you. N O T  N O W. She’s absorbed in this tedious presentation and the tedious, fucking futile responsibilities of this tedious, fucking futile milieu.

Later, the Venezuelan meets you over lunch. The carryout pizza is the worst you’ve ever had; you also realize how much of the smell you associate with pizza is actually just the smell of warm cardboard, which does indeed have a smell. (Yes.) But this pizza is really fucking awful. You bite into it again and ask yourself if capitalism has destroyed culture. (Yes.) The Venezuelan is still talking. She tells you about how fucking wet she is just from thinking about yesterday morning and you smile and nod and wish you could fuck her right then and there and she just goes on talking about things she saw on TeeVee.

 

 

WEDNESDAY. Sitting in your cubicle, contemplating whether or not you could kill your boss with the stapler and your bare hands, contemplating whether or not that would be feasible, or contemplating if you could get away with it, contemplating whether or not you’d be able to get out of the building after doing something like that, contemplating how far you’d get on I-95 before the cops set up a road block and took you down, contemplating how many cops you could kill before they wasted you, contemplating how many cops you could kill before they took you down if you brought an assault rifle and five spare magazines, contemplating if you could fuck the new girl in finance on the copy machine while everyone else is in the cafeteria for Birthday Day, which occurs on the first Friday of every month and lasts about an hour, contemplating if you could stuff her as the rest of the amorphous mass of flesh you call your co-workers stuff their faces with Publix brand cupcakes…

(This is a joke, this is highbrow literature, this is whatever you want it to be, don’t take it so seriously.)

Or maybe you should go to the Venezuelan’s desk (go there right away) and get down on your knees and eat her out. Get down on your knees and rub your whiskered cheek against her inner thigh, higher and higher, drawn in closer by her smell, sickeningly sweet, rubbing your nose and tongue against the outside of her panties until her moisture meets yours and the space between dissolves. And then eat her like a death row inmate eating his last meal, eat her until she’s numb, until security removes you from the building…

Or maybe you should masturbate in the bathroom, masturbate loudly to the Hustler rag you picked up at the convenience store on your way into work alongside the donuts you brought in for your coworkers, masturbate then take a swing at whichever bastard coworker dares to knock on your stall to ask, “What’s going on in there? You okay? You’ve been in there for a long time, bud.” And then proceed to beat his face to a bloody pulp until security removes you from the building. (“The police have been called.”)

Well, here’s a fact: if you go into the men’s bathroom one more time to find an occupied shitter stall you’re bringing an M16 to the office, no joke. Cut through all of this, no joke, you will bring the M16 without hesitation because a Man has a right to shit in peace… you’re bringing that M16…

At five o’clock, you join the worldwide rat-race to get back to the pathetic fucking shack you call home and watch Seinfeld or Friends for 30 minutes before masturbating again and going to bed, American dreaming.

But you don’t.

You fuck the Venezuelan again. There she was, in your car, sucking you off, spitting on your cock in a dark parking lot outside the Ruby Tuesday, just working your cock, really putting a lot of work in, putting in more work than you do during the entirety of that 40 hour detention in your cube, working her wrist and everything, and, like a good girl, leaning over to kiss your cockhead, just gently rubbing her lips over it and peering up at you from beneath her perfectly maintained eyebrows, beseeching, asking if you like it, and you can only sit there reclining, clutching the grip of your car door until your knuckles are white, eyes closed, somewhere else completely.

You earned this.

 

 

THURSDAY MORNING. The day before Friday and frankly the perfect day to get out of your Jetta – when traffic is stopped on I-95 because some asshole tried to get over 4 lanes to an exit (Yeah, you can’t fucking do that, still) and caused a 40 car pileup – and take out the AR15 (M16) you purchased the weekend prior and just start picking off the drivers one by one, trapped in their pathetic Lexus cages that they couldn’t even escape if they wanted to…

 

 

FRIDAY. the best day to show up to work a little fucked up out of your Gosh Darn Mind because – let’s be honest – everyone else started drinking by 9 AM and there was no reason to pretend any of you wanted to be there, death would have been welcome at this juncture if only it brought 5 O’clock around faster. The day is spent N O T  W O R K I N G, masturbating under your desk, and / or taking the lanky intern boy in the supply closet and fucking him up the ass because – well, why not. You’re just high enough on MDMA to handle your first gay experience, plus he’s got a nice ass and has a certain feminine air about him, anyway. (A long, dejected sigh) Anyway…

 

 

SATURDAY. The day where all you need to do is get fucked and fucked up. The Venezuelan and the blonde single mom with the big ass are there, servicing you in the interim when you’re not servicing them. They start making out with each other in front of the TV screen while you watch, jerking off, half to them, half to the lesbian porno you rented from Blockbuster earlier in the week, and from there they start emulating what they see on screen, the Venezuelan taking the initiative and tonguing the blonde’s asshole, parting those massive cheeks to get at her puffy, pink anus and getting down deep inside, and the blonde just moaning the whole time, clutching her breast, and you, watching, have already ejaculated and gone soft, fucked up out of your mind on pills and alcohol until you finally join them on the floor, sticking your tongue places you never thought you’d stick it and then suddenly…

This bores you, actually.

 

 

SUNDAY. Suicide is foremost on your mind, so many ways to do it and so little time. The Venezuelan is at home and the blonde is breastfeeding her kids or some shit and you really have nothing to live for because Monday is coming and you know you’d rather swan dive out onto the freeway and get plowed by a semi truck than go one more day in your cubicle, with the one possible exception being you taking a bunch of anthrax and a handgun into the building and start fucking up that whole joint. You’re talkin – okay, you’re talking killin your boss, killin your boss’s boss, killin your boss’s boss’s boss, and asking the Venezuelan to suck your cock at gunpoint because – hey, that’s about the only thing you two haven’t done at this point.

And then just do /that/ until SWAT comes in and shoots you on the spot because you shot one of their scouts out the window shortly after they had surrounded you and their CO had called everyone together and told them, “We’re just not going to be able to take this guy alive, he put up too much of a fight, and we did what we have to do” and the whole team silently nods in agreement because their minds were already made up the moment they heard you’d killed Glenn and under no circumstances were they letting you leave that building alive.

 

 

MONDAY. It’s Monday again and you are in traffic because  F U C K  Y O U,  T H I S  I S  W H A T  Y O U  D E S E R V E – stop and go traffic during your hour-long commute to the gates of hell. That’s what we all deserve.

And you fistfight with some other driver during bumper-to-bumper traffic just to break up the monotony, then run off for a bit, leave the unconscious man and your car where they are and run into a 7/11 convenience store to buy some porno mags and wank off in the bathroom until 11:30, then get back in your car (now just sitting in the middle of a busy road) and drive to work, running a few Boomers off the road in the process – because they deserve to die – and then getting in and telling your boss you’ve been there since 9AM.

What is the Venezuelan doing for lunch, anyway?

You. She’s doing you. Because you convinced her to let you pull down her panties in the bathroom of a Ruby Tuesday and fuck her ass raw right there in the stall. Later you order the Jalapeno Poppers.

 

 

TUESDAY. Y O U took the day off to go to a mall and you’re in Macy’s looking at those plates with the nightmarishly tall Italian chefs on them and the black and white checkered backgrounds and trying not to have a mental breakdown as you listen to “DO YOU BELIEVE IN LIFE AFTER LOVE” after already hearing it / T W I C E/ at Bed, Bath, and Beyond earlier in the day and now you’re fairly sure you’ve been here before. Look as this sexy Asian bitch cashier bitch…

 

 

WEDNESDAY. A white apartment along I-95, a white boxy building encompassed by palm trees, a white sky of pure cloud overlooking that building, overlooking an overpass, in a suburban community, in Boca Raton, Florida in March of 2002. Not such a bad day. You get a lot of work done, then you go up on the roof with the Venezuelan and the blonde mom and convince them it’d be kinky if they let you chain them to AC units naked and leave them there all day. And wow, when else would that work besides today? The very day they agree, the very day you happened to have slipped powerful hallucinogenic drugs into their coffee, something you only did because they slipped powerful hallucinogens into your coffee thirty minutes earlier, which fortunately wear off around five O’clock, when you go up and release them and then not talk about how fucking weird the 8 previous hours have been, when you saw all that is, was, and ever will be from the comfort of your office chair plus some pretty fucked up shit it would be better not to go into detail about. Oh yeah, worse than any of the shit previously mentioned for sure. Trust me, you’re glad you don’t have to hear about this shit. It’s for the best.

I could describe it vividly, don’t think I can’t motherfucker… I just don’t want to right now… maybe later…

Then you drive them back to their respective flats on different sides of town before returning to your own apartment, where you collapse into bed at 3 AM and knowing you can’t go on any longer T H E  W A Y  Y O U V E  B E E N G O I N G  H E R E T O F O R E , go into your closet, take out the stainless steel .38 Special your dear old dad gave you when you turned 18 and proceed to

 

FIND JESUS, REPENT, AND TURN YOUR LIFE AROUND FOR THE BETTER