X Story Series

“What’s in Blythe?” I hope the unasked part of my question is clear: Why drive out into the damn desert, almost all the way to Arizona? What could possibly be worth that shit? It’s already hot as fuck here, I’m clearly hungover, and I should stop this car right now until you get to explaining what this whole impromptu trip is really about. “Tyler,” Jolene says as if that’s anything. “What?” I keep staring ahead, at the road, calculating nearby drive-throughs, and maybe shitters (I feel something violent just starting to brew in a way that could end up threatening later). But I can’t keep my eyes from narrowing to a glare. The last thing my head needs is a new puzzle to solve.

For some reason, I feel like I have to say something to her, I guess because it’s my house or whatever and it’s just expected. So, I utter, “You enjoying film school?” and cringe at my voice cracking at the top like a whimpering teenager out of his depth. “I quit,” Sandradee says flatly. “I want to be a physical therapist now. I start my program next…” Again, I don’t hear anything else. In my mind, I flow across the room like a river and disappear up into the warm safety of her ample behind where I’ll live out the rest of my days in quiet perfect-ass-themed dignity.

“X?” Shit, it’s my damn wife calling from downstairs, her voice all shrill, but orderly, like a stuck-up older sibling who you know wants nothing more than to tell you what’s good for you. I don’t say shit, not at first. “X?!” She’s louder. Closer. Fuck! “X?!” she cries from right outside my door. “What? I just woke up.” I sound so dry, like a bleached skeleton half buried in the desert.

I finish off the dark red bottle, my second for the night (purchased yesterday, on special, at CVS). I need to piss. I wonder what cocaine feels like. I wonder what acid does. Heroin . . . fuck, that feels like it would be blissful, right? Like getting carried away on clouds by angels, instead making myself cum tiny pathetic amounts of spooge so neatly only on my hand…? But I don’t know how to get that shit. I got all this money, doing nothing. And I’m too much of a fuckup to even use it the way I want. Doesn’t matter, I guess.

My name is X, and I’m going to die. I haven’t thought of how yet, or when. Really, the only part I’ve made sense of so far is I’m going to die at some point, so in the meantime I can do whatever the fuck I want. Then, yeah, COVID hits, and all I got is time. Insurance will take care of my freakshow wife (freakshow-looking, she’s a really nice person). And I can fill my days wandering to places like CVS, staring at the likes of Indian Girl’s ass completely freely no matter how pissed she/they get, go home, jerk off to depressing ass porn, and . . . and be safe in the knowledge it’ll all be over soon. The world is fucked anyway. I’m fucked (comfortably, at least). And I don’t give a fuck what you think about anything I just put down at all. Damn, I really do feel like a whole new person. Oh well.