You will pluck me from obscurity sure that my gun handling abilities are above par, on par, almost par, and you’ll mould me the way I did dough, and bread and gluten-free spaghetti (stealthily unbendable, non-pliable, even when wet).
And I will break up, break with, and I’ll take in all sorts of literature and I’ll explain, in a zombie apocalypse I’m exactly the person to know.
I’m a person you should know, okay? You say you know, it’s why you picked me. But I can’t help thinking all action is really inaction, and that there’s no other earth to compare us to, no mirrors, and no reason, and what we think we’re altering’s only a construct that isn’t there anyway. A hypothetical, invention. Like freedom, you know?
I will know you before I want to, before we exchange names, and you’ll turn up in a stalker-ish way and we’ll pretend we’ve never done things for money or to make people like us, but we’ve both stripped down to our underwear and let people photograph us and it helped but not as much as the promise said. And promises generally are watered down jelly, are unset ice cream, are blancmange and curdling cocktails.
When you need a fourth, when no-one sticks, and you’re convinced alone is forever, is okay, is the actual, I’ll hold the skin under your bra, beneath your elastic Y-front rim, and lie better than the last ones did.
I saw this movie with Cameron Diaz called The Box and it was sort of science fiction and she had a wig on or it might have been dye, but oftentimes a person’s hair is really a wig and it can take you five years just to notice it. Or I guess it could be a toupée. So secrets don’t surprise me now. I like finding things out and I read Wikipedia at work when I’m bored and six months ago I didn’t know where Norway was, three months, France, and there’s so much I could tell you now, if you’d only ask me. I have a photographic memory, a head of totally genuine hair and a box full of photos of people I used to fuck or mess around with or fancy, which is kind of a creepy mix considering most of them don’t even know me. And every time I look, each time they’re fished out, I could swear another turns out to be false. There’s always one more wig.