Dienstag, 10. März 2015

THE STORY OF I

by Constantin von Hoffmeister
 
 
To attain equal rights to set off a general revolt. A grave strategic mistake not seem more understandable. Cunts kill cool cats. I went to the store to buy a gallon of milk. I went to the store to buy a shotgun. I went to school for an exam. I went to school to vent my anger. I went on a shooting spree and blasted twenty-seven seven-year old girls. Blood and brains on the carpet in the algebra room. In the gym I worked out to vent my anger. I was eight years old when the man in the black cape came into my room at night, wanting to suck my blood and my cock. I started working as a driving instructor, my foot on the imaginary brake and my hand on the knees of the female students. Sometimes my hand would wander under their skirts. This only happened when we parked and never while the car was in motion. That would have been dangerous. 
 
A man in a white vest walks up to my table and demands to see my identification. I show him the middle finger and tell him to piss right off. He does not walk away. Instead, he sits down and orders beer for the both of us. We drink in silence. After we have both emptied our glasses, the man gets up and lights a cigarette. He stands in silence while smoke drifts out of several holes in his throat. I did not notice these holes before. His white vest has stains on it.
 
I pull down my pants, so that the ants can enter my anus. The tickling sensation of the ants entering my anus makes me giggle. I am sure I read somewhere that having ants settle down inside your body will make you less of an individualist prick. I want to belong and the antsentering my anus will help me achieve this goal. Finally I shall become a member of the group that I am a part of. My ethnic interests demand that I subjugate myself to the process of having ants enter my anus. The ants form a collective. One of them grows really large, and Clint Eastwood as the pilot of a fighter jet has to destroy it.
 
When I was a man, I dreamed of being a woman. Now I dream of being a man. Sometimes I dream of being neither. And then I dream of being either. Is a man a woman, and is a woman a man? Are both sexes like a plug and an outlet? Is the connection severed when the plug is pulled out? The cowboy moaned in a dusty bedroom above a bar in Butte, Montana. Downstairs, having just finished a shift in the mine, the miners were streaming into the bar to clear their dusty throats with beer.
 
Red ribbons floating on the river. A raft floating down the river. People on the raft. People not noticing the red ribbons floating beside the raft.
 
My heart is bleeding. I forgot my sunglasses at the bar last night. I suppose I should pick them up, but it is always better to buy a whole new pair. One feels like a completely new man that way every time one forgets one's sunglasses at the bar. The sun is coming up, and it is already blinding me.
 
Then it should not fear who violate blood.
 
 
July 24, 2008

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