An old man came up to me today while I was working at my desk and started rubbing my love handles with his bony fingers. I’m not sure how he got into my house, but since I keep the doors locked because I’m afraid of getting raped and murdered, he had to have found some kind of loophole.
But wait: who would rape me? Maybe a hairy man-breast fetishist lives under my house, but the likelihood of that is like getting in a car accident or finding your front door when you’re looking for it.
The old man has been rubbing on my love handles this whole time while I went through the flooded used bookshop in my head. He finally stopped, having already rubbed my chubby little sides raw-red. He opened his dry, puckered mouth. I didn’t want to hear his plastic-bag voice. There’s so much mucus in the throat of the elderly.
I just said, “I know that I’m a failed miscarriage, buddy, don’t you fucking worry.”
He nodded and left through the same place he came in. I was too fat and lazy to go look where, but I did hear him say, “God damn this little hatch under the toilet in the hallway bathroom.” The mystery of his infiltration still haunts me.
Here I am. Alone again. My girlfriend is in the house but I feel alone because I don’t feel like a thousand people any more. I just feel like one shitty guy who buys shirts that are too long and go past his zipper because he’s too short and doesn’t care enough that he looks like fat little Ebeneezer Scrooge in a nightgown.
I twirl around in my office chair, stuck in the shadowbox frame of my absurdity. That shadowbox doesn’t really feel like a frame, actually; more like a big planar womb in which my ice cream body can barely fit , the glass bowing at the center where my hairy stomach pushes up against it.
At this point in my life, I feel like a poorly made puppet being maneuvered by a pathetic monster always underfoot. The little metal sticks they once used to move my hands and feet must be atrophied by now like little aluminum muscles.
I am a Muppet™ with a working penis and the hydraulic hands of a young’n, always trying to squeeze my dick in the vice-grip of a sweaty, guitar-callused hand otherwise soft from years of having done nothing requiring an iota of strength. And I squeeze so hard that it reminds me even more that I’m just a meatbag with an overactive sex drive and enough time to find all manner of pornography to stream.