sqfnyc
They say size doesn't matter, but when sized-up, I might not, and instead of thinking of the size of the matter, I'm thinking "these shoes, size up, or size down." What matters is matter, not matters of small size and less matter.
I am seeking her approval, subtly, with cunning, slice by slice, coming off a platter so begrudgingly carried from suitor to suitor, yet I think she threw me a wink on that pass, and I'm nearly certain I may serve myself at this point. Her approval is the only savory dish worth sampling.
Texts blowing up my phone. Ugh. Why would I say that. The texts of my cult of personality would not permit that to fall from my lips like a heathen. No, this grunged-out voodoo sect would rather I use worlds like "derelict" and "déclassé," not paraphrase Ke$ha and mimic the frolicking dance steps of dirty hipsters.
My manners matter, they have said to me. Countless times before, at dinner parties and birthday parties, small parties, large parties, there is always the likelihood I will have someone to impress. I can incur a compliment if I'm extra good, a pat on the head from a stranger I couldn't seem to care less about. Matters of manner generally define my behavior, but only when it matters.
The substances combine in the vial of my blood, the beaker of my brain, the palpable pulses in my fingertips. Why, why, because you chose, you chose, chose this, chose when, chose who. So decide. Decide to enjoy the strangeness, decide whether or not this means something, whether or not it means anything, that these substances drove your decision, that derision can or cannot be something they inspire.
Assaults on my personage always seem to inspire affront, the satisfactory sort that lets you feel the victim while remaining in the right, engendering the pity of others as well as their respect, and causing me to question whether the assault will ever stop.
Unheard secrets have little weight. They are like the vacuum on the sidewalk between two passing strangers, navigating their respective passage at high speed, sweeping away even the atmospheric molecules that dare to insulate their scurrying egos incarnate one from the other, full to the brim inside with the things they will not say, wouldn't reveal, don't dare allow to be known. Everybody has secrets, which remain unimportant as long as they remain unheard.
Camera action behind the plywood walls of the 4th floor rental unit studio, director wearing skinny jeans and too-thick glasses, licking his lips between muttered commands, eyes too eager. She's wondering if anyone can hear, but mostly, more than anything, she's wondering, what am I and this camera doing here?
I have fallen into her trap. Moist, unpleasant, guileless. That's me now. I'm as stuck as can be, and it's all my own doing. There was little I could do to not ensure that I would end up here, but I guess there's little to say when you make as good prey as I do.
My methods are questionable, they told me. They are irregular, worse than polygons: sides all asymmetric, different lengths, following different paths, mirroring no one else but themselves in hindsight. Questionable methods make madness, they would tell me. But no, my methods were my greatness. How dare they question something they couldn't deign to understand, to observe: my MO, the madness to my methods.
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