Fun with Nick and Jane
I am fucking David Foster Wallace’s dead body when Jane asks me if she can covalently bond with Donald Barthelme. I say absolutely not, immediately recalculate, plot the dosage of Zoloft against the balance of Quetiapine, decide why the hell not.
When I arrive home, Nick is pissed. I point out that Jane is already being fucked by a white person and has a well-established history of clinical depression and prodromal syndromes. Nick is not impressed. Nick punches me in the cunt. Brian says the next time I see her, tell Jane fuck you, because he sewed her button back on her coat the other day and she never said thank you.
Myriam wants to take off my pants, and I say no. I look for Kristina Born—Kristina is nowhere to be found and will not respond to my friend request, either. Nick tells me he saw Jane and Myriam on the bus; he misses Jane. I probe him for further information—probe being the psychotherapeutic term for “encourage more speech”—and determine that he has mistaken Carolyn for Myriam, which makes more sense.
I read nonfiction after Carolyn’s play, still bitching about my parents and the unfairness of DNA and the exponentially marginalizing structures of epigenetics, not to mention the socio-commercial use of scientific survival in creating selfhood-crippling evolutionary brainwashing mechanisms. I miss half of Jane’s piece because I am busy trying to relieve myself of interpersonal unease and uric acid and other phenomena my body cannot absorb. Myriam does not come, although she was invited.
Afterwards, I find the nearest funhouse and fuck Leonard Cohen and F., my orgasm ripping on and on over the treetops like a nitrous-oxide gunshot, a manic balloon ejaculating across the horizon.
Horror Sleaze Trash 