third-trimester love affair aborted

Welcome to a white room containing two white-three-piece-suit clad males. The first is a thin young boy around seventeen years of age. He has semi-long, semi-curly dark brown hair, pale skin, dark eyes with long eyelashes, and a timid smile. He looks uncomfortable yet elegant in his suit. His name is Cosmo Crude. The second is a grey-haired, bespectacled forty year old psychiatrist by the name of Mr. Tidbits.

The latter clears his throat and says dryly, "Cosmo son, would you please tell me more about these little 'experiences' you've been having?"

Cosmo- who had previously been looking at the fluorescent lights and counting the tiles on the ceiling- listlessly looks up and nods his head yes. He loosens his bowtie a bit before speaking.

"Well...uh...fuck, alright. Well, like you know the last thing I told you- about the football player and cheerleader arguing over who was most likely to be president one day?"

"Mmhm...go on."

The psychiatrist jots something down in his notepad, scratches his stubbly chin, buttons the bottom most button of his ivory suit jacket, then waits for the boy to proceed.

"Okay, well, it's happened again since then except this time it wasn't just two voices- there were several. I'm not sure how many exactly; it was hard to tell. I mean, some were more distinguished than others. So, I really am not at liberty to say exactly how many, you know? But...uh, er...I do know, though, that one of them was a mother- or was going to be a mother- and she had a stuffy nose."

The shrink excitedly scribbles some more words in his notepad, smiles queerly, then crosses his long leg over his knobby knee, once again focusing on Cosmo.

Cosmo loosens his black bow tie another time while smiling sheepishly. Of a sudden he becomes unexpectedly animated as he says, "I can, uh reenact it all for 'Hooray! Role Play' if you want but um for now I'll just tell you about it."

Mr. Tidbits sits up erectly in his seat full of giddy energy and gleeful anxiety. Apparently he is quite pleased at Cosmo's proposal.

"Oh yes, yes...please do, son."

"Well, alright. Let's start this off without any words- ha, that's a play on one of Kurt Cobain's lyrics, it's such a great song he-"

At this moment the now extremely emphatic, on-the-edge-of-his-seat Cosmo is interrupted by the doctor.

"Let's not get side-tracked now..."

Cosmo's face becomes warm and flushed with an embarrassing heat. He begins fidgeting and looks at his shoes; secretly wiggling the toes on both of his feet. After thoroughly inspecting his white oxfords which are adorned with a golden buckle, he mumbles something inaudible, then continues.

"Oh, sorry. Well, in my head it was a dark, sleek, sexy night in a Third-World future when the shit [not-so-literally] hit the fan...I mean, I guess that's what was going on in my head- like, like a dream only my eyes were wide open."

Cosmo shifts uneasily in his cold, hard seat before carrying on.

"Anyway, Charlton Heston- the N.R.A. guy, you know?- was trying to escape this strange world of apes, orangutans, and their disorganization of generals and armies trying to take over the island then, I guess, the world-"

"Hmm, very interesting Mr. Crude."

Tidbits glances at the clock hanging on the wall, stifles a yawn, takes off his spectacles, fogs them up with his hot breath, wipes them dry and clean on his lapel, then looks deeply into Cosmo's eyes. Maybe too deeply.

If Cosmo were paying attention to Mr. Tidbit's attentive, penetrating stare he may have felt uneasy; however he is too busy recounting his story to be bothered by body language and the deciphering of such.

Cosmo pushes his hair, Cosmo shoves his curly bangs, out of his face. He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a soft-pack of unfiltered cigarettes. He reaches his slender fingers into the pack and pulls out a cigarette but does not light it. Cosmo simply twirls it in his hand and continues talking.

"Well yeah so then this girl starts talking and her voice is really high pitched and pink-sounding. She says, 'However you look at it, this was not a fun activity! Barbie and Kenneth are supposed to be my friends and that's the only reason why I helped them to do it.' 'Do what?' I asked her, but she was already gone- gone or angry- because she did not answer me. My head began throbbing at that point. I still couldn't understand whether or not I was awake or dreaming; I felt suspended in air, floating somewhere. I couldn't have even told you where I was at that moment, I barely even knew who I was, you know? But, anyway, just then- after the pink-sounding lady ceased talking- this couple jumped in. There wasn't really any scenery or anything; I mean, they were just sitting on an invisible bench with translucent red-tinted armrests. I think maybe they were breaking up or else just arguing."

Cosmo lights his cigarette. Mr. Tidbits frowns, but being so deeply involved in his patient's anecdote he decides to let him smoke.

"Anyhow," continues Cosmo, exhaling tobacco fumes into the room, "The girl was really pudgy and pimply. Ugly- I guess, I mean by normal (whatever that means) social standards- but charming. So, this ugly yet charming girl asks her equally unattractive boyfriend: 'You're so easily influenced! If someone told you to steal a highly expensive car wouldja do it?' Her boyfriend replied in a southern drawl, like a hillbilly or something, 'Hay nah, I'd neva. I'm olf-ended that ya'd think that of me, baby. Hot diggity damn!'"

At this point in time the psychiatrist, Mr. Tidbits, once again pencils something in his flamboyantly purple notepad. He wonders if this couple represents anything factual in Cosmo's life- perhaps his parents? Once the shrink realizes that Cosmo has ceased talking he hurriedly encourages otherwise.


"Keep talking, keep talking son...this is absolutely fascinating!"

Cosmo scratches his head, extinguishes his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe- looks around for a place to discard the butt, shrugs, puts it in his suit pocket, and looks off to the side, into the distance, trying to remember.

"Oh, alright. Well, next came the little girl. She wasn't there long though. She was just sitting on her swing talking about pudding. She thought I wanted her to 'touch it,' the pudding- that is. She said, 'Ohh, boy! I swear orange puddin' is grr-oss! I would never touch it! I can't believe you would think that I would touch it!' She was getting pretty upset. I kept trying to tell her that she had me mistaken for somebody else, but she wouldn't listen. Finally she swung so high on the swing that she flipped over the top and when the swing came back there sat a young woman- about 29 years old. She had a fat stomach, nice eyes- probably the nicest eyes I've ever seen or saw without actually seeing, you know?- she was wearing glasses, she had a fat stomach, pretty soft-looking brownish blond hair and a shy smile. You know those types? Every time she'd smile she'd look at her feet. She reminded me of my English teacher- ahh, what was her name again...something German sounding-"

Mr. Tidbits sternly advises, "Focus."

Cosmo, startled from his deep contemplation, looks wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the psychiatrist. It is almost as if Cosmo, in his reverie, had forgotten that the shrink was sitting across from him and listening. The young man quickly regains his composure, shakes his head from right to left as if to say "I'll be damned," smiles his timid smile towards the doctor, then continues talking in an even dreamier voice than before.

"Sorry sir. Well, I said 'Can I ask you a question?' She said 'Sure,' so I asked her something that she shouldda got mad at, cause it was rude and all, but she didn't. I think she was too kind, you know, a philanthropist type or something. Anyway, I asked her 'How did you get that belly? It doesn't quite match the rest of your body.' She just laughed- the most beautiful laugh I ever heard- and said, in a surprisingly stuffy-nosed voice, 'I'm pregnant silly- third-trimester as a matter of fact. What, are you gonna ask me how old I am next?' I got extremely embarrassed at that comment but kept talking nonetheless, cause I liked her. I like her very, very much sir-"

"Oh shoot Cosmo, we're almost outta time for today- try to wrap it up would you son?"

Cosmo glances at the clock- which is stuck on 12:21- before answering with traces of disappointment in his speech, "Oh yeah. Okay. Quick. Well, hmm, basically I talked to her a little more- asking her questions and stuff. And, well, with every answer she gave me I found myself falling deeper and deeper in love. I mean, don't ask me why, I think cause she reminded me of my mother or something...which sounds sick, but it's not like that. I'm no Oedipus Rex, trust me! Anyway, I started getting really jealous cause I figured if she was pregnant then she must have a husband or a boyfriend, so I asked her. I said, 'excuse me miss, I know I'm a bit younger than you are- but, I mean my heart doesn't know what age I am, and- well are you available cause of your pregnancy and everything, I mean, I wouldn't wanna wreck any homes or nothing, it's just well I-' she cut me off at that point and explained everything. She saw I was confused- she was really good at deciphering and telling what was on my mind you know?- and said matter-of-factly: 'I was raped by my father.' She kept talking, kept telling me how it happened, and how the doctors wouldn't let her get an abortion and on and on...I felt the need to vomit but didn't want to interrupt her...as she retold the story, as it got worse and worse she started to fade away, evaporate like water or something. She kept talking and then Ludwig Van Beethoven or Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart- I dunno, one of those composers- started playing in the background. After the song was over, and her story was almost over, she was all dried up like a stain. I could only hear the sound of her faint voice moaning on and on yet I couldn't understand any of the words. She was just a stain. Like a stain in my heart or something..."

At this point Cosmo stops talking, he starts to sniffle, "It's just not fair! How could someone do that? How could we let this happen, what- what is wrong with us dammit!"

Like a shot a terribly violent sound slices through the end of Cosmo's sentence. A loud buzzer blares in the background and Mr. Tidbits announces, "Oops, look like we're out of time. Next week my boy, next week."

The shrink gathers his briefcase, papers, and belongings then leaves without saying 'Good-bye.'

Cosmo is left there pulling at his hair. Cosmo is left there in his seat shaking and sniffling and crying real tears. There is not much left of him either. He too is starting to fade. Cosmo Crude has begun to fade away. A hollow and emptied space. Indeed, there isn't much left of him except for a lump in his throat and a heaviness in his already laden- already heavy- heart.

Everything begins to sag and to break under the weight of pain.

c.o.n.s.e.q.u.e.n.t.i.a.l h.e.a.r.t.a.c.h.e

I feel like a weightless ghost alone in a world not my own, nowhere to turn for safety, no arms to hold me for comfort. Only a cold hard slap in the face-- from society as a whole; from my girlfriend; from my mom; from my heart; from love-- that lingers on my cheek like a goodbye kiss from her lips.

My eyes hurt-- from lack of sleep, from countless tears, from a crazy heart, a broken mind-- I close them to relieve the pain, all I see is a memory of her; a blur. It hurts me so much so that I have to bury my heartache/sadness in tall glass of-- open eyes again, watch the world slip away, numbness, body no longer receiving signals from brain- anger.

I try to talk, to tell her what’s on my mind but I throw up the words-- they weren’t good enough anyway-- from my mouth. I wish I could touch her hand, feel her warmth, feel content-- sunny days, green grass, long kisses, warm hugs-- again. I think I’m crazy-- mind racing, eyes burning, heart on fire [frozen]-- for her.

Everyday I think how I don’t want to wake-- slip away from life, let all my worries fall to the ground like the rain, flush all my pain/sadness down the drain-- up alone.

I want to wake up [fall asleep] in her arms. Still, I find myself hanging from a memory of her lips, struggling every second not to lose my grip and fall-- head spinning, palms sweating, heart pumping, eyes looking [but not seeing]-- out of love.

t.e.a.r.j.e.r.k.e.r

Walk in door, smile. Pretend to be happy- little kids playing in park, kiss on lips, hug from mother, clean sheets- exchange hello's, smile. Surrounded by people- all alone in room, twiddling thumbs- quiet, polite. They offer me a drink- "to wash away sadness," she tells me; live because death's the alternative; brainwashed from the start; lonely all the time- of vodka, I decline. Get up, move to sofa, pretty girl sits next to me, start feeling nervous- first date, girl on bed, speech in front of class, don't know answer to question- she smiles at me. "Hi nice to meet you how are you I'm fine, I'm always fine- lights shining too brightly; music pounding my eardrums; warm feeling in crotch area- when I'm a little tipsy."

Just then I realized I had a problem- keys locked in car, flat tire, wrong number, parachute did not open- see, I hadn't cried in weeks. Normally, I wouldn't mind so much but family member died and I did not shed single tear, I felt like it but no tears- clogged drain, stuffy nose, hole in straw- came out.

Obviously, I made it with her, she took me by the hand and locked the door- hot shower (20 minutes), sleep with no interruptions, hot fudge sundae- pants down on bed. I remembered my problem once again, put on boxer briefs, buckled belt, and ran- Michael Johnson/Maurice Green, cheetah, gazelle, donkey, chicken with severed head - to hospital.

Doctor takes one look at me, pulls up my sleeve, plunges needle into vein- walking barefoot on asphalt under the summer sun, punched in face by drunken father, biting down on tongue, finger nails on chalk board- injecting me with some drug made to grow back the part of the heart that makes you cry.

I was happy; drugged but still me; waking (or sleeping); falling hard; like is not love. Fetish for fragmented thoughts/flipped switch for nonsense. Surrounded once again by joyful youths: fall to ground and start to cry- as easy as that- in front of them all.

wake/up/in/the/morning

Wake up in the morning- shit, shower, shampoo- get dressed, put shoes on feet, hit the street, get on the bus. Find a seat on the crowded automobile, close eyes sit down; think not feel. Open eyes, look around. Open ears, hear sound. Look around, close eyes. Bow head, cry. Wipe away tears, smile joke- don't let them know I feel.

The vehicle stops suddenly to avoid squashing an old man pushing his home on wheels. My eyes slam open like the squeaking breaks. My heart burns- not something to be solved with Pepcid AC, this burning was not caused by a slice of pizza, pasta any, or food greasy.

This gets me very worried really- are the kids okay, is the front door locked, did grandma take her pills- worried. I felt the fire burning in my chest melting my shriveled heart. Or, at least, what’s left of it. Falling- rejected by the most popular girl in school, slap on face in back seat of car, hand stopped before touching- into pieces.

This time I could not stop tears, stranger offers me a tissue- wrong size pants no receipt, sticky floors, no toilet paper, missed call no answering machine- I thank stranger but do not proceed to accept tissue. Don’t want them to know I feel.

Persons who feel aren’t the latest fashion. They went out of style along with complete thoughts, movies with happy endings, matching clothing, dreaming while awake or asleep, and love.

Push bell, get off at stop. Run, begin running, to the nearest pharmacy (Walgreen’s) ask the pharmacist for anti-emotion serum. Pay money, thank man in white coat. Take a swig, feel the burning stop- thank god, good deal- wake up in the morning; think not feel.

i can teach you how to do it

So's I know most of everybody thinks I'm crazy. Hell, I even think I'm crazy. But, like what is craziness to begin with? What is insanity anyway? No, seriously- I'm not trying to wax philosophical or anything fancy. It's just in this day and age when most everybody you know is on one drug or the other- be it pharmaceuticals like Ridalin and shit or the hardercore stuff like heroin- in order to keep their neurotic tendencies at bay how do you like define that shit.

Normally, we'd say that crazy is crazy because sane is normal therefore anything outside of the norm is abnormal, right? But it seems to me the norm is crazy.

We're all insane in one way or another, we've all got our idiosyncrasies, our strange realities. To me it just seems some people are simply better at hiding it all, you know denying it, than others.

I used to be good at hiding my weirdness, I used to be a liar, a thief, a two-faced son of a bitch- basically I used to be a model citizen. I played sports, I played women, fuck I even played the godamm violin! I fought with men, I drank on the weekdays and a bit more on the weekends. I went to my job- my soul sucking pointless excuse for employment- day in and day out. I was on the clock in one way or another twenty-four seven. Superficially speaking I was well-adjusted, handsome, polite, care-free, responsible, and happy. And, inside I was miserable; a wreck, a car crash, an absolute mess.

I'd cry for no apparent reason. I'd wake up in the middle of the night screaming and freezing because my body would be covered in sweat and agony incarnate. Yeah, I used to be normal. I once was your-so-called model citizen.

I once had a girlfriend, a job, a future. A future in America's sense of the word. You know: if I cut enough corners, fucked over enough people, treated my friends like dogs and ate them, became opportunistic and advantageous enough I would have made tons of dough. I would be sitting in meetings, sleeping through them, I would have had a little sexy secretary bitch (pardon my language women; the derogatory was used solely for emphasis) to take notes for me, and I'd give her the time in the copy room until I knocked her up. Which is usually how those affairs end. And once I knocked her up I'd pay her a handsome severance fee so she'd never bother me, hire somebody even cuter, even more ditzy, to fill her position. And I'd keep on "living". I could have had all of that.

An expense account, vacations in foreign countries- so far away that I couldn't even begin to locate them on a map, places you couldn't even pronounce the name of if they were spelled phonetically. That could have been me. Sipping martinis, drinking sex's on the beach while performing the dirty deed, making whoopy on the white sands of some Mexican beach.

Who knows I might've even decided to keep one of those babies made with one of those secretaries, one of those little babies conceived on top of the fax machine. Maybe we would- me and the ditzy, gum chewing secretary- have even started up a family.

Lots of well-dressed itty-bitty, "perfect," kids (imagine two runts cut out of a catalogue that only assholes and grandmother's read). They'd more or less become and be accessories. You know, something my wife would put in a stroller and push whenever she felt her outfit was lacking in dignity or responsibility. You know, something I'd take with me to office parties in order to give my co-workers and potential clients the impression that I was a family man with a good head on my shoulders. But, all other days we'd ignore them completely. Hiring a nanny and sending them off to boarding schools- their tiny little hands clutching brand name luggage, their whole existence shoved inside of a Ralph Lauren, a Tommy Hilfiger, a Burberry suitcase. Or some other two-named dumb ass designer. Yeah, they'd have hair all parted and greased. They'd have all the money to afford all the things they don't need for an eternity. They'd grow up never knowing me. Yet they'd go through life hating me nonetheless. And one day- after years of being estranged- I'd die and leave them the keys to my estate and they'd hang a picture with my face in the doorway and pretend they knew me. They'd tell their friends and their family what a great man, a great father I had been, they'd learn to cherish and appreciate my name. My wife would wear all black on my funeral. Her black mascara running cinematically onto her cosmetically enhanced cheeks, her plastic surgery created superstar nose and cheek bones. She'd continue on like this, crying and pretending she rather be dying than living without me, for a about a week or whatever the socially acceptable grievance period happens to be at that time. Then, afterwards, she'd stop mourning and begin living the life she'd been dreaming of before she met me. Before I knocked her up and ruined her life, before I rendered her future impossible. She'd marry and spend all of my money on and with her new "hubby." Or, she wouldn't marry at all, who knows what her life could be.

Yeah, that could've been me. I could have been a picture-book image of the perfect man. The American dictionary definition of happiness. Or maybe I couldn't have. Maybe I wasn't born with the bullshit gene inside of me. After all, I come from not old money or even new money- I come from no money. Therefore I know it means nothing. I know that happiness is not something you can see. Not something to be witnessed in expensive clothing. I know Giorgio Armani won't make me happy, I know Prada and Gucci won't make me pretty. I know the four-door sedans, the BMW's, the luxury vehicles, the Lexus, the Mercedes Benz, or the Volkswagens- for the more practical family man- will not drive me to my destination. They will not deliver me from evil and rest me gently on the pearly steps of some picturesque heaven. I know success isn't measured in currency. I know you can't buy love with wrinkly, green pieces of nothing showcasing some dead president's face. I know that having a whole house or a mansion littered with- no, covered in- Benjamin Franklin will not make me a better man. But what will, I ask myself, I ask you, I ask anybody listening to please just make it easy and give me a clue.

What will- what will make me happy? What will make me admirable, desirable, a joy to be around, what will make me myself, what will make me succeed, what will?

I ask myself as I stare down at the slick, shiny ground. The wet asphalt- wondering if my demise was all my fault, was it that spilt salt I neglected to toss over my shoulders?- staring down at the ground through eyes that are crying, tasting salt on my lips. What will make me happy?

I ask myself as I decide whether or not to kill myself. To commit myself to something finally- no more broken plans, no more flake-outs, no more ignored promises- I will commit suicide and maybe before I fall and land, crashing into the cement forever, maybe before I die, before I attempt to erase my strife, I'll be able to define life. Maybe then, in the final moments before the final moment- I will be able to say that I too know the true definition of happiness.

Or, possibly, I will just regret jumping and leave a nasty mess for some minimum-wage paid worker to clean in the morning. Maybe and well, most likely, it will take three whole weeks before anybody even notices that I've gone missing- such is my life: boring and lonely. But don't you worry, dear reader, if I do succeed I will most certainly teach you how to do it. I can teach you how to do it. Trust me.