Below is part 4 of the original series ‘Missed Connections’ by Sean Kilpatrick. Check out the previous 3 here.
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LISTEN TO THE AUTHOR-NARRATED AUDIO ///
You were the marginally palsied munchkin punk whose vain refusal to utter even a passing remark about appearing a tad bent caused me no qualm with the rest your body’s flawless alignment. Depressingly for you, your mind was intact, often forcing out candid and assholish estimates. You had a right-off-the-Mayflower name and lived in a McMansion, but your tattoo sleeves were appetizing. Anybody in the region who resembled you had had come gobbed on them by some troglodytic mohawk with the word “scud” in his moniker and it was difficult to want to fuck the lot of you afterwards, for reasons of hygiene, nothing puritanical, and the persuasive ease by which your fellow dunces hopped across fashion in order to nut. Perhaps you two felt the right amount wrong voting for Bush together or discussing another stern application of sensible-sounding libertarian anarchy. It was when you moved to my city and started ladling soup that I found a need to vomit all over the guilt of your retro decor. You were Martha Stewart with a safety pin through her clitoris, dictating how to touch you with such preemptive arrogance I settled for playing with your triumphantly formed feet to avoid the latest cool STD. I didn’t mean to discourage your bullet bra, but the crowd that invariably formed around it whenever we went outdoors taught me how to shrug. Had you squirted your genre out for a reason apart from the faux confidence of its laudable semen, had there been a foam about you beyond that your opinions against the meek began with Tupperware, and if you hadn’t introduced yourself to your twenties by fucking a bored path through every concert, you might have been the poor subject of my dedication, hopefully disappointing it enough so that I could spend a month amputating your head from the lopsided rest of you. No kidding, if I managed the impossible task of decapitating you, you know a second fucking head would have grown in, instantaneously. A much greater hatred ruined my posture. Something women refused to ignore as easily as you. You were your own condition. A crippled pinup gal, every male’s ideal lay, especially if it seemed like she might malfunction mid blow job, but you balanced that with the countenance of a cyborg half savant, half PMS. Tons of scientists discovered the blueprints to fuck you and didn’t share them with me. Our surly kiss was like mulch tongued out of the syncopating rectum of a javelina. The kind of kiss that confirmed you’d find me in hell. A kiss that proved there was no afterlife. Too hardcore for handouts that didn’t involve bukakke, your snatch was an elusive piece of patio furniture sucked from the bottom of a beer can. Between the bombshell scythe behind your jeans and the eternal fairytale widow crossed with irony whose daddy was Tim Burton and whose mommy was Wes Anderson, or vice versa, I picked pictures on the internet. When you added literary criticism to your résumé of confrontational intellect, to build a coarse and brave dialogue of sexual pitter pat, I was no longer able to masturbate to you, and you proceeded to bed the decline of western civilization without me. I am “so over” my own libido when I torment myself with memories of you. I believed I had begun to rot on my twentieth birthday and your nasty insistence that I remove my boots frightened me. Undressing was your field, although I cannot picture how you accomplished much without assistance, which explained the thousand on call geeks. I supported that you came a lot, but the philanthropy of it eliminated the point of shame altogether. Your trendy loft wasn’t coded with enough cupboards for me to hide from the pretend badass you agreed you were. Anything I exposed at your suspect beckoning was an excuse to lampoon me. I preferred being laughed at by the less architecturally confounding. You were quite mobile, but asked to be carried once, feigning sexiness, and informed me after that it hurt you in some mysterious way. You were someone delightful to imagine striking, not because it was probably the only way your configuration achieved ejaculate, but, because you were so free of typical female social obligations and etiquette, we were basically in a bar fight already. You were too legion to take revenge upon, least your army struck back with bazooka-level ass play. I never met anyone since who made skinheads seem as flattering by comparison. Many people take it upon themselves to punish me for being polite in person, but what you should leave alone is the fact that any proximity to my “true self” must be established from a casket.
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Sean Kilpatrick’s new book THANK YOU, STEEL CHINA will be out from Schism Prεss[2] soon…
