Demons Live in The City of Angels

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Ass kicking, ball busting snow.

New York got hit again. But I don't care. I'm not going outside. I've done my food shopping. I've done my buying for this month. I've even bought a 10lb bag of rice so that I will never starve again. I'm like a South East Asia boy. I crouch in my shack, my ramshackle hut, and scoop plain cooked rice into my mouth to keep the walls of my stomach from rubbing together.

But I'm fat. Fatter than he'll ever be. I'm on drugs that blow your ass up like a balloon. You can never lose weight. Even if you starve. You'll just stay fat for the rest of your life. And fat gets in the way of living. It gets in the way of life. I can't stand it, but it's what I am, so I guess what I'm trying to say is that I can't stand ME.

I had a dream that I wanted to go food shopping last night, but the food store was closed down and everyone walking past at such a late hour thought that I was stupid for standing there. I walked off, and when I did, some scary character fell into step behind me. I turned around and looked at him just to let him know that I noticed him, reached into my pocket and cluched at my keys, alowing them to poke between the fingers of my clenched fist. I fleshly mace.

You know, I have to do this because my life is always, always in peril when I dream. I turn around and look behind me again and he's gone. I frantically jump about, looking in all directions, but I can't find him. I blast off, running down the block as if my fat ass depended on it and gain the doorway of my apartment building, rushing in.

That's all I remem- bered. But that's alright, because I'll be asleep in another 30 minutes. Yeah, now that I am off the Wellbutrin I am a somnam- bulist. I can do nothing but sleep like a corpse. I awaken, eat, drink, sit in front of my computer, read one email. I try to answer it, start to nod off, clear the books from my bed and go to sleep.

I dream about fucking a blonde with one cold, mechanically enlarged false right arm. An arm filled with wires and transistors, a hand the size of a baseball glove. She is naked under me and my erection is pounding a hole right through her. I grab at her breast, a silicone bag of plastic, let my hand roam to her shoulder, where it is a cold, plastic collarbone, then ending at soft, warm flesh. My arm follows the plastic to her shoulder, over the cold steel armatures and linkages moving up and down, tiny pistons as her arm is wrapped around my back.

I push her hand away, use my hand to stretch it out slowly, finding the wire and cable filled opening at the inside of her elbow. I grip at the mechanical sinew, but do not harm it. She moans, a partial woman, and I plant my lips against her. Her half-ness, her less than being a woman, makes me even hotter, makes me burn with a greater fire. I want this amputee to fuck me with all the strength she can muster. USE YOUR FUCKING ARM BITCH! My brain calls out to me. FUCK ME. She fights harder, struggles more. She is fucking within an inch of her life. I kiss her plastic shoulder, run my tongue down the inside of her plastic armpit and underarm. She is amazed that I'm turned on by her imperfection.

Imper- fection. What is imper- fection? I awake on my bed. Groggy, tired after an hour and a half of napping. I'm STILL tired. I'm exhausted being exhausted. I rise.  I eat. I drink. I sit in front of my computer, read one email. I try to answer it, but I start nodding off. I get up, clear the books from off my bed, crawl in, and go back to sleep.

Someone is trying to kill me....

Hobobob