THE LOST TAPES Vol.28

   I fall in love way too easily
   Most girls I see, sometimes boys
   Fall prey to my unconditional love
   Sometimes for a few minutes
   Sometimes for a lifetime
   And in some of all these times, I get something back
   Something real, not imaginative, not fairy tale
   But that’s not what I want
   I don’t want their love back
   I want my love for myself as theirs
   Project myself on them and then back to me
   Selfishly living my own dream of love 

***

   — [...]look at yourself in the mirror for a change, before talking about others —, says guy 1, truck driver.
   — Why would I? I know I’m ugly —, responds guy 2, the ugly one. 

***

is there something more vile
than a donkey schlong in the ass?
my name is Johnny Knoxville
welcome to Jackass 

***

Note to self: write some dick for the gays.

***

   “I still can’t believe you’re a christian.”
   “I still can’t believe you’re not in jail.”
   My aunt, Priscilla and I eating subway.
   “You come so much to my office I better start calling you ‘Anesthesia’”, she says with a laugh, “get it?”
   And since this is my kind of humor, I could not help but laugh along.
   “Do you have a dentist, aunt? You be looking like you need one.”
   “Of course I do, silly. My ex-husband.”
   “You mean the Cléber with a ‘k’ guy?”
   “Yep, the hottest around. Bit of an asshole, but the dick is big.”
   “Worth a child, I imagine. He put two in you.”
   “Don’t go judging me on my poor decisions, baldy.”
   And the two laughed mercilessly at my expense,
   “You two should seriously stop bugging me before I snap.”
   “You’re looking like someone ready to steal a convenience store as a rite of passage.”
   And Priscilla,
   “Looking like Corn with that beanie.” 

***

   In the waiting room we see a kid with cerebral palsy trying to walk to the doctor’s office.
   “Don’t stare”, she says, “where are your manners?”
   “How can I not stare? I’m a writer for fuck’s sake!” 

***

   Around the yard paced a man, in his 40s, talking into a voice recorder. He circled in laps without stopping through the entire time we stayed there. “Two women entered the court, both around 22 years old”, he said loudly when we showed. “The two women are awful at baseball”, we heard him say as he got closer, to then go away again, never stopping his mumble into the voice recorder. His son was there and would walk around too, but with no direction. Catching pebbles on the ground he would take one by one to a big pile on the corner. The boy also talked to himself, sometimes screamed, sometimes groaned. Pretending to be a super-hero he fled to save the day; pretending to be a youtuber he would scream out loud the intro for his imaginary Minecraft video. When the ball landed near him, he would start repeating “Ball! Ball! Ball!”, grabbing the ball and not doing anything with it. We tried to get him to play with us, but he was very clearly absorbed into his own world; we were nothing but another element on the background of his real life fictional story. His dad, when he interfered in the game somehow, would come and say the same thing: “Oh, you gotta patient with him, he’s just a poor autistic boy. My son, he is, you see, unfortunately autistic.”, then proceed to hand me the ball and drag the boy away from us, despite we stating he wasn’t being a bother. In fact, to him too our words seemed to mean nothing. It was never an interaction, always a performance, and the cycle would repeat itself time and time again, accurately the same, like they were two robots. At nightfall the breeze became way too cold for their summer attire, but they simply kept going in their respective missions, the father mumbling into the voice recorder, the son stacking up stones. When we grew too tired to keep playing and decided to go home, they stayed. We shouted a goodbye to no avail and went our way.