Thursday, August 4, 2011

sniffs wholegrain flour off toilet seat with a 20.000 bill - party - beirut city -

he was never a know-it-all. he would come off as such.. he was an argue-it-all. it just didn't make sense. fact didn't make sense. the concept of factual evidence was beyond him. he was probably an idiot. he thought he was a genius. it's okay, no one cared. he could be a genius if he wanted too. and he was.. according to himself, a genius. he was a misfit. he did not like having sex. puberty was lonely. he liked the stars. he liked how they - in his present - are dead projections of theirs, their present. he had dead friends. the stars were ghosts. he had ghosts as friends. ghosts always beat flesh. everyone knew that. they still do actually, everyone knows that. everyone was never a parameter of normal to him. he thought everyone was stupid, as a chunk. it's ok. they all thought he was stupid, so it was mutually de-beneficial. but really, no one cared. some people called him gay. he googled it. it wasn't that bad. he just didn't like sex in general. others called him asexual. he googled that. it wasn't as bad as they made it sound. he thought he was sexual though, he just didn't like having sex. the act. he didn't like the other. the first time he came hands-free was when he stuck a cucumber up his hole. he tried being fucked. it was too painful. his partner was a jerk. it was okay, nothing new. he did not like having sex. every now and then, he remembered puberty. he drew portraits of it. talked to it. not knowing much about it yet. faked scenarios to cum to himself in constructed mirrors. he liked himself. he couldn't believe anyone else. he couldn't trust anyone else. he only came to trust. slowly, he taught himself to doubt himself. more and more, he lost taste of his jerking hand. more and more, his interest faded in his aging body. he was empty. he was empty, hyper in a beirut toilet cubicle - the music loud as fuck - men fucking in the cubicle on his right. men fucking in the cubicle on his left. in his cubicle, one man rolling a 20.000 bill, lining brown powder on the toilet seat.
"trust me, i'm not in it for the.. "
and it was almost, just almost - all fine

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