THE LOST TAPES Vol.29

I’ll do something bold today
Maybe paint my nails red
Go to rooftop
Kill another man
Piss on the passerby
At the grocery store
Find a new love
Cop a chocolate bar
Say mornin’ to the homeless
Don’t go back home
Throw eggs at the lake
Eat half the bar
Give the rest to a kid
And only then go home
Cook the eggs I left on the bag
Sit on my comfy armchair
And lose myself 

***

   — Took you long enough to accept this date, — she says, trying to hold down a smile.
   — Took me long enough to accept myself.
   — Have you ever noticed how much you talk about yourself? I like that, it’s like you know the potential of your character.
   — I was just replying to something you said about me. That’s a strange thing to say, you.
   — Oh... Sorry for that, — she wasn’t sorry. — I totally wasn’t practicing that line before you showed up, to use it as soon as I had the chance.
   — I’m against the idea of autobiographical writing as something bad, — I said, ignoring the awkwardness. — The “self” being an easy character doesn’t diminish it’s value.
   — Agree. I’ve been stalking you, you know? I mean, not “stalking stalking”, but I might have read everything you published to this day, and I think you really do great with yourself as a character.
   — So that’s where all those views came from. That’s not healthy. You know that, right?
   — Of course I do, I’m fucking crazy in the head.
   — And that’s another red flag.
   — I know, right? It would be for me too. I’m just kidding, you’ll get used to it eventually. This is our what? Third? Fourth date?
   — Third, yes, but I don’t think we made any of them count yet.
   — Nonsense! It’s always been a story to tell. For both of us.
   — For both?
   — Yeah, dummy, I’m a writer, too! You’re one of my characters.
   And then I fell into silence —  which she respected —, completely lost on the idea of being a character in someone else’s story. So creepy it was, so awkward. Imagine the constant flaws, the absurd endeavors my metaphysical self has been put through in hands not mine. The surrealism out of control of a being that carried my name made me want to puke.
   The servant took the cue and came to ask about our orders. My date ordered for us both while I tried my best to shrug off that awful feeling, completely unreasonable for someone like me. But after a while I believe it got boring, for she tried to break the ice.
   — You’re weird. — She shot at me, at last. — What is it? Inspiration stroke? Nausea? Baby incoming?
   And that last one cracked me up.
   — Imagine having a baby inside a B-tier café. That’s an omen if I’ve ever seen one, — I said.
   — Better than have your water break at the Apple store... — She says with a chuckle.
   — And a plethora of maniacs send you to the rest of the world, — I complete, laughing along.
   — I wonder how many people understand your references. There’s so much cool shit in your writing.
   — My work feels like such a collage sometimes. Text-based Frankenstein. I’ve referenced Sua Yoo so many times she might as well just sue me.
   — Sue Yoo?
   — Sue Yoo. I’ll be talking to her about narrating a movie I’m making based on her poetry. Have we ever talked about that?
   — Please tell me everything.
   — “Green Beans”. I’m making kind of a visualizer for that poem. It’s looking kinda slick, not gonna lie.
   — Now that’s something I’d love to be part of. Any vacancy?
   — I’m always looking for independent shots to be featured. There’s a part where it goes something like “I’ve seen footage”.
[...] [this got boring]