The Orkin man didn’t show up today and we waited all day because the fucking floors are disintegrating. Termites are pests that eat wood and not the kind of wood that Amanda B. use to have between her legs. In case you missed my last post it was revealed that Amanda B. is a man, or was a man, in the past. I’m not sure if that means she’s still a man with a vagina or a woman with a new space in place of the thing that was there before. I need to read up on this cause I’m not that smart. I don’t mean to be crude but mom is panicked because her foot almost went through the floor. I swear. And mom doesn’t even have big feet even though everything I’ve said about her makes her seem like she’s Big Foot. Mom just has a big mouth. Small feet. Anyway, Amanda B. is calling the Orkin man the first thing in the AM cause she hates bugs and bats too. Not baseball bats but the kind of bats that sleep during the day. I’m gonna apply some Burt’s shea butter hand cream repair because I think I need to be rejuvenated. P.S. The origin of love is behind you.
I had a dream that I couldn’t get any satisfaction then I woke up and googled Bjork and PJ Harvey. They’re not married, but in my dream, they got married. After the ceremony PJ ate Bjork and they turned into glitter jellyfish and then a chocolate bunny filled with marshmallow stuffing. It was a fun dream, filled with the horrors of chocolate and science fiction, glitter and the absence of ponies. Like the origin of antimatter isn’t scary enough. We are all surrounded by chocolate and hungry mouths and sparkly things that want to taste our gooey insides. Mom is asleep. Amanda B. is asleep. I’m thinking about jumping in their bed and tickling their toes till they beg for mercy. I decided to lay in bed and count the cracks in the ceiling cause it gives me satisfaction even when I’m all alone.
P.S. I love soup.
Amanda B. and I met secretly in the hallway halfway between my room and mom’s room. Amanda B. said mom’s on the rag. I told her to get mom off the rag and she said she couldn’t get mom off the rag because mom wasn’t on a rag. She is on the rag, she said. By the rag I think I knew what Amanda B. meant. I said oh and told Amanda B. mom will get off it soon. I asked why mom was always on the rag and Amanda B. said the rag has something to do with being a woman and that you can’t just get off it when you’re ready. I asked Amanda B. why she’s never on the rag. Amanda B. said she had to go but I wouldn’t let her go. I blocked the hallway exit. I asked her again, Amanda B., how come you’re never on the rag? She always acts so calm and collected like a leaf. I thought maybe she’s special. Amanda B. said she’s never on the rag because she used to be a man. I asked Amanda B. if she meant she used to be a Tom Boy and she said no. She said she was a real boy just like me with a penis and two balls. I corrected her and told her I have three balls. She laughed. Maybe you got one of mine, she said. We laughed. I didn’t believe her because she looked more like a woman than any woman I’d met before. What were you called when you were a boy? Steve, she said. They called me Steve.
Well, not really. The gelato sucks and mom got her shoe caught in the gutter so we had to call the cops and then the cops arrested her for littering and loitering. Mom told the cop to go f_ck himself and then he filed an assault charge and locked her up. Since I didn’t have any cash, cause I’m only a kid, mom had to spend the night with real criminal ladies that were tougher than men. When mom got out, which was this morning, she looked like a wilted trucker and stunk like a fat greasy hog, or warthog. I took her to the zoo and they let us in for free.
Today mom and I went to Washington Square Park and talked to a rodeo rider. I think he was a rodeo rider. He said he rode bulls or cows in a rodeo, but the rodeo is not located in or around Washington Park Squared. Actually, it’s located in the dog park in Washington Squares. He rode bulls, not dogs, in the real rodeo located outside of New York City in a city where people ride bulls and cows, and clowns too. Mom asked him if he was into bondage and domination. I was embarrassed. The guy was too, so he said no, even though I think he really wanted to say yes.
After WSP we walked south on Thompson Street and walked into a bondage shop and the shop clerk asked mom if she was the whipper or the whippee and mom was like I like to whip ass so the clerk suggested a fine whip and mom bought it and whipped my ass on the x marks the spot. She didn’t really whip my ass but we ordered whip cream for my Cafe Mocha. It was good. So good I got a second Cafe Mocha and then I threw up. As in vomittwd. All over Spoon’s floor, which is not a utensil, but a cafe where they sell stuff you have to stir with a spoon. Anyway, we’re at the hotel now, which is really really small. Smaller than the hole in the wall we call home except this room has free cable and the cockroaches are enormous. They tell scary stories.
I have no idea what I’m writing. I’m A.D.’s mom and she doesn’t know I’m writing this shit down in her diary. I wonder if she’ll know she didn’t write this entry. I wonder if my daughter knows she’s a boy. Anyway, good luck. I love you. Mom.
I just got notification that I’m a jerk. My BFF Squinny, who is dead, sent me a TxT message from Heaven or Las Vegas, which reminds me of the Cocteau Twins, which reminds me that TxT should not to be confused with my Potty Mouth guest xTx. BFF Squinny said, “you’re a jerk.” I TxT-messaged BFF back and told hir to STFU, which has nothing to do with TOFU or Holiness. We’re not talking now, which is fine, cause Squinny is dead.
I realized something today. We’re all little torture devices. Our tiny bodies are too big for the sea. We can’t fit in anywhere but want to fit into place. Secured and locked. Anchored to a boat like Squinny anchored hirself to me. I told myself I’d stop lying about Squinny but I don’t care. I got a clue when Who Cares punched me in the gut at school today and laughed. His mom stood by his side. She laughed. Mom stood by my side. She didn’t laugh. Amanda Bernstein stood by my side too and she didn’t laugh either. I told Who Cares to watch out cause I got two moms and they’ll kick his single mom’s fucking ass. Who Cares shrugged his shoulders like who cares and growled like a fanged-frog. His mom shrugged her shoulders too and rub her shoulders. I will write about Who Cares one day and use his real name. Mom and Amanda B. shrugged their shoulders, winked at each other (imagine one of those CGI animation twinkle), and then pole vaulted over Who Cares and showed his mom what my two moms are worth. Squared.
P.S. I’m a born-again vegetarian.
Here we go again. Mom is sad because Lena Horne is dead. Amanda Bernstein is sad because mom is sad and because Lena Horne is dead. I’m sad because I’m hungry and I’m sad because these broads won’t cook when they’re both sad. I told them not to be sad because they’re not dead and they both looked at me and said they feel dead. That’s why they’re sad. I think they’re sad because they realize they’ll be dead one day like Lena Horne. I think mom and Amanda B. are sad because they won’t win a Tony Award like Lena Horne did for her one woman show. Mom and Amanda B. have a two-lady show way off-Broadway but no one pays them a dime to watch them perform. Because their show is way off-Broadway. Far from the spotlight. Where no one can see them perform in all their glittery sadness. I’m going to McDonald’s for a Happy Meal with my BFF Squinny. We’re gonna figure out which of us will be Steve and which of us will be Lena Horne when we grow up.
Lady Gaga makes me want to be a boy. Lady Gaga also makes me want to be a girl. Lady Gaga makes me want to say Wha, What when people say I should go to hell. No one cares if Lil’ Wayne smacks lady ass in music videos. When powerful women display their powerfulness-ness, everyone freaks, like they freaked on Thelma & Louise. Anyway, I’m busy trying to get these fishnets on. No wonder I can’t decide which way I’ll go. Until I decide, which may be never, I’ll continue my education on YouTube and pretend Mom is Lady Gaga and Amanda B. is Beyoncé. Because they are on the inside. Like we all are. Freaks. Mom says I’m a disaster and calls YouTube YouBoob, of course, cause she’s a boob and a horse. Mom’s got no class and a huge ass, but that’s another story I’m not prepared to tell, yet. Anyway, I love telephones and the possibility of military service. I love rhyming too. And the House of Gaga. And the way BeyonGaga make me feel when I feel extraordinary. I love you, HoneyBee.
Yesterday my BFF Squinny died. I’m not certain if I really want him dead yet, so I might retract my last blog post, or maybe I’ll ignore the fact that Squinny is dead and continue to write as if he were alive. If I do that, people will probably call me a liar, or non-linear, or King Lear or Liar Pants. Mom says I shouldn’t deny reality or lie unless it serves a greater good like the time she lied to get fifty bucks for gas. She didn’t have a car back then. Mom says I shouldn’t lie when inappropriate but lying is always appropriate, especially when it’s done discreetly, like lies between lovers or cats. If Squinny is dead dead, but he is alive in my head, does that mean he is not dead until I reach the age of dementia praecox? I hate socks and the White Socks and anything that ends with cox. I hate baseball even though my new friend loves baseball. I pray because I think she’s insane for watching men playing with a ball and bat with their clothes on. Squinny never wanted to play baseball, but he loved to play dress up and Showgirls & Indians. I bet you want to know why I call Squinny, Squinny. Well, I’m never going to tell. If I did, it would ruin his reputation as a deity.
This morning I woke up in a debris field. Fragments of my imagination scattered all about. I ran and ran and ran to my BFF Squinny’s house and Squinny’s house was gone. I ran back to my house and my house was gone. I ran down the street toward North Miami Avenue and North Miami Avenue was gone. Only the impression of an avenue remained like the footprint of an Ibis on the wet part of the beach. I ran back toward Biscayne Bay and Biscayne Bay was gone except for a boat and two fish. I ran nowhere and everywhere was gone. Meteorites skimmed skyscrapers and the world was on red alert. Squinny is dead, mom said. She said Squinny was dead. I know, I said. I know. Then I went back to bed.