Tonight is all about channeling a little rage, and that guy’s blood is still smeared all over the road outside; it looks like some car’s oil pan gave up on life and splattered all of its aspirations all over the concrete

Every time I hear a noise outside the front door, I race to the peep hole and stick my eye as close to the void as I can. The inside of the glass eyepiece is dirty and around the rim I can make out tiny specs of dirt. Every now and then I’ll have to moisten up a q-tip and stick it in the hole, swirling it around to clean out as much junk as I can. Every time I do it I’m reminded of the first time I was tested for chlamydia. The nurse had a nice smile that day.

Yesterday some poor woman driving an SUV let out a blood curdling scream that I’m sure everyone within twenty miles of the area heard. She screamed “HELP! HELP! HELP!” Sarah and I looked outside. Her car was stationary in the middle of the main road just below us. Embedded in the side of her car was a man on a motorcycle, a man who also wasn’t budging. The woman screamed bloody murder, like someone was killing her with a sharp object. Sarah was the first to call 9-1-1 and not more than three minutes later the entire area was surrounded by police, ambulances, and a big red fire truck. The paramedics yelled out “GET A TOURNIQUET!” about six times. After everything was said and done and the sun had finally begun to set, all that remained was a big splash of blood in the middle of the road where the man on the bike had bled out some of his red stuff. Sarah’s friend, who knows a guy who’s friends with the man on the bike found out the man on the bike is currently in a coma, and may lose his arm.

Tomorrow is my Monday of the workweek, well sort of. I work Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, but our pay period is Sunday to Saturday. So technically, my “Monday” is on Sunday and my “Friday” is on Saturday. But since I work the four days in a row, I just call Thursday my “Monday” and Sunday my “Friday”. Uninteresting, right? Of course it is. There’s nothing quite less interesting than discussing a writer’s work schedule for his dayjob. I’d rather sport an unshavable, totally permanent hippy bush between my legs than talk about that sort of thing, a permacunt, or in my case a permacock. A dickfro. I’ve never been adverse to a little pubic action on a woman, but if I ever let myself go with the groinfur, my dick just disappears entirely, leaving even myself to wonder if there’s anything down there. It makes taking a piss synonymous with watching someone with clubhand try to french braid some unfortunate girl.

I can’t stop looking out the window to look at the blood on the road. It doesn’t make me sad or numb or add a bad taste to my mouth. In a weird way it’s probably the closest thing I’ll ever get to snorting coke. I’ve never snorted coke, and never will due to my family’s history of cardiac disorders (I’m destined to die from a heart attack sometime in my 50’s, that is if my father really did die from a heart attack and not from a pill-popping act of suicide, a major pill-popper he was, making the latter of which the more likely scenario given the suicide note we all found shortly after his death in 2004 and the fact that my mother said he was dead on the couch when she found him, and one of the paramedics trying to keep him alive, a classmate of mine the year before, had said he died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital). That whole situation has seemed a little strange to think about again, it probably doesn’t mean anything, and I’m probably a psycho for even considering it.

I really need to get back in shape. I’ll start with push-ups again. Maybe some sit-ups. I used to have an 8-pack and those rock-hard pecs all you superficial women crave. My ass even had a pretty good fuckin’ shape to it back then. I’ve been told I’m a complicated man, but what’s fucking complicated about saying I should start doing more push-ups while I have a glass of Dickel next to the computer?  Tomorrow always comes for someone, except maybe that guy on the motorcycle the other day. If it does, he’ll meet the new day with one less appendage, and maybe with a slightly-more open mind about motor-vehicle operation safety.

Update: Sarah just informed me the guy didn’t make it. I’m pouring another glass of Dickel.

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About Dave Matthes

Writer and author of poetry and prose. Self-published author of eighteen books, with poetry published by Paper and Ink Zine, Analog Submission Press, and Hickathrift Press.
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