“Not too sure I should wake up because my sleeping mask reads ‘goddess’ and it is a charge I find myself both at odds to live up to, and moderately victimized by. My vision gets sacrificed daily to the facts brewing within the mirror. I’ve decided to slow down on bowel movements. The uncomely effort to tease a strain, or to make myself conscious of not straining, and the involuntary paroxysmal result, at which doctors shake the more abridged of their Freud books, surpasses any concern for digestive constitution, and I relent to bleed either way. I void twice weekly. Meanwhile, the ensconced remainder interpolates my perineal sinew, yo-yoing against the prostate so that I suffer involuntary nightlong erections, gradually desensitizing that delicate tissue as well. Increasing fiber intake exacerbates this issue, decreasing it at least keeps the convulsions occasional, if not chronic and debilitating. The recommended posture squat, the hokum meditations, the mere recycling of one’s lungs, the indifferent practitioners and their blanket Metamucil, those who shrug with the concession of IBS, as pointless as their colonoscopies, the physical hobbies prescribed by the merchandise of our psychologists, stall the cure. Seppuku is the only laxative. I spent much of my hefty twenties as the most impatient suicide, about as processed as anything I swallowed, slimming down once the pain reached an apex I could no longer appreciate sexually, but remained annoying enough to keep me generally aware of my surroundings. I used to idiomatically splutter an awkward blessing over anyone too near me daring to be practical. I had an industrious wife I chose to support regardless of her overshadowing bank. I borrowed a little relationship fee from the state, enough to cripple our environment. Now I cut my hair with a gardening tool. With bolt cutters from a morgue. I trim my beard with masking tape. I go outside and scream at a particular bush. There’s always space for DNA. It highlights anyone’s vision of themselves. The platters I collect are a sort of Grecian plastic. I like to get inside someone and take it easy. That modifies my color. For nails, I remain full of hate. I remain full of hatred for most anything growing on me. Because I’m into brevity as a typifying metric aesthetic. Makeup’s a less quantum task. I’ll start a lawsuit if my silhouette feels featured. I’m consistently chapped from eating starch. I’m a natural at being chapped. I either focus on whiskey or haven’t the lubrication to speak. This generates an overall waxiness I combat with the concentrated application of razorblades. Lots of spores you need to disentangle with a base liquid. Remember vinegar stifles fungus. Could someone help me find reasonable work, please? Doesn’t seem to happen without connections and I’m going to continue pontificating like this until I’m helped into a fucking mentionable or existing tax bracket. Not that any position merits pasture. Speaking of connections, mascara falters heavy on a corpse lid. I like to clambake in my shroud to better harness gnats.”