beacon light

Oct 9 '11
You don’t know a goddamn thing. Not one, not two, not a whole bag, not-a-thing. Nothing. What you know, what I know, what we all know: food in mouth; shit out ass. Simple and beautiful. Until one day, you put food in, but no shit comes out. “Maybe some more food will budge it out,” you might whisper. One more chip. Two more cookies. But no shit. Where, you panic, is the shit? All at once the essential logic of your biology breaks down somewhere, somewhere deep. Maybe the hole is vomiting up some bloody babble fecal juice that makes santorum look like the finest euro-cheese no-work dollars can buy. But def no shit. You don’t know why. Don’t even try to act like you do. You’re no fucking doctor. But if you are, fuck these bills. I’m still broke. So whip that smile off your face, ‘cause it ain’t gonna help ya shit one bit. How Long has it been again? More importantly how many days before you even noticed? Were you immediately panicked or did you trust Newton a little too much. I think we can all agree there; bless our hearts. Go to Walgreens — yeah, right as they open. No one you ever knew will see you buying the pills, the ones that promise shit. Just never look the cashier in the eye. They’ll only look past your pupils and see shit. “This person is full of shit,” they think. Swallow some Dulocalax prayers, hoping they make good on the deal. You can push all you fucking want. Push harder; push longer, and push longer and harder. “I put so much food in here, there has got to be something! A pellet! A bloody fucking chip! Anything!” You’re only turning inside out to demonstrate one fact: you don’t know a goddamned thing and you have an empty toilet to prove it. It’s moments like this that you look toward your fellow man, all with fully functioning bowls and the shit to prove it, and wonder, this can’t be what Mrs Lansing from fourth grade meant when she called me special. But it totally is what Mrs. Lansing meant. You are special until your normal, but you don’t wanna be. You are normal until your special and you seriously really don’t wanna be. You shit until one day you don’t. You love until one day you can’t. You know until one day you don’t. You live until one day your dead. Trust me; none of this should be a surprise. So do yourself one big last fucking favor and get off the fucking pot. ‘Cause you just don’t know shit.

You don’t know a goddamn thing.

Not one, not two, not a whole bag, not-a-thing. Nothing.

What you know, what I know, what we all know: food in mouth; shit out ass. Simple and beautiful. Until one day, you put food in, but no shit comes out. “Maybe some more food will budge it out,” you might whisper. One more chip. Two more cookies. But no shit.

Where, you panic, is the shit?

All at once the essential logic of your biology breaks down somewhere, somewhere deep. Maybe the hole is vomiting up some bloody babble fecal juice that makes santorum look like the finest euro-cheese no-work dollars can buy. But def no shit.

You don’t know why. Don’t even try to act like you do. You’re no fucking doctor. But if you are, fuck these bills. I’m still broke. So whip that smile off your face, ‘cause it ain’t gonna help ya shit one bit.

How Long has it been again? More importantly how many days before you even noticed? Were you immediately panicked or did you trust Newton a little too much. I think we can all agree there; bless our hearts.

Go to Walgreens — yeah, right as they open. No one you ever knew will see you buying the pills, the ones that promise shit. Just never look the cashier in the eye. They’ll only look past your pupils and see shit.

“This person is full of shit,” they think.

Swallow some Dulocalax prayers, hoping they make good on the deal. You can push all you fucking want. Push harder; push longer, and push longer and harder. “I put so much food in here, there has got to be something! A pellet! A bloody fucking chip! Anything!”

You’re only turning inside out to demonstrate one fact: you don’t know a goddamned thing and you have an empty toilet to prove it.

It’s moments like this that you look toward your fellow man, all with fully functioning bowls and the shit to prove it, and wonder, this can’t be what Mrs Lansing from fourth grade meant when she called me special.

But it totally is what Mrs. Lansing meant.

You are special until your normal, but you don’t wanna be.

You are normal until your special and you seriously really don’t wanna be.

You shit until one day you don’t.

You love until one day you can’t.

You know until one day you don’t.

You live until one day your dead.

Trust me; none of this should be a surprise. So do yourself one big last fucking favor and get off the fucking pot.

‘Cause you just don’t know shit.