You Don't Know (For Fucks Sake)

Prologue to a Car Crash

The Begining

I’d like to advise you not to read this; not to take the time to de-code all of this neurotic behavior it surely won’t be worth it. I’d like to tell you not to waste all of your energy on my self-absorbed bullshit, but something tells me you already are; sympathetic you. But for the record I’m a worthless piece of shit and you should probably hate me, for reasons completely unrelated to this monstrous tale. Although I’m pretty certain this also, will give you a rotten taste in your mouth in regards to the compulsive liar that I am. This is not a god damn Disney movie so you’re pretty stupid if you decide not to turn back and find some more suitable literature- something that won’t further damage your intelligence. Like all those TVs and microwaves and Gama-rays already do. Like those people tired and hungry lined up outside the soup kitchen- too stupid or insane to want better. Damaged intelligence.

Fact:: I want no better for myself, remember that.

"Today we’re serving chipped beef and potatoes, so you’ve got a lot of prep work Michael." And I hate charity work. As if human beings have nothing better to do than waste time on the weak or drunk or even the terminally sleazy. It makes sense to me clearly as I deposit my pink service hours card into the prune faced woman giving me the stink eye’s hand, exactly why it was that people were forced to do such chores as their own personal punishment. Community control is complete rubbish, as we all know how much it ‘controls’ the crime rate.

I thought Thursdays were chipped beef, wasn’t today only Tuesday? I thought Tuesdays were the mostly pleasant vegetable stew. I thought menu change was an absolute no-no. I thought anything that would forget about the smell of semi-rancid beef wafting through my nostrils for a full eight hours.

"Thursday is chipped beef. Thursday came early all the god damn carrots and celery were rotten this morning." She griped. I’m fairly sure her name was Gwen, but I can’t be positive I’d never cared enough to ask. "What do you care you ingrate? I’ll sign your damn card either way so just peel the damn spuds you shit." This miserable old cunt was correct, for the most part I could have cared less what slop we created on what day. The reality simply being these people, these cattle could just choke on the god forsaken food I just didn’t want it to smell bad the whole time. "And no more twenty minute bathroom breaks you hear me- I don’t know what you do for twenty minutes in the restroom, but you’re here to work!"

I’d like to tell this woman, this Gwen. I’d love to revel her with tales of lunch break intravenous drug use, or of multiple sexual encounters involving a girl I was quite certain to be her niece, but I didn’t. Instead I kept those perversions to myself using both of my tattooed hands to stretch out a hair net. Very fashion forwards.

Fact:: I work thirty hours of community service in that hell hole a week. I’d rather be in jail. But for the record, that fire was never suppose to have gotten so out of control. Hindsight is a mother fucker, if I can speak freely. 

Angela Spinosa was a dirty girl. A fucking filthy whore whom I was pretty fond of, looking across the kitchen I scowl just watching her prance around her dish sink with a smile on her face. Just peel potatoes Michael, you’ve got about four hundred pounds of starches staring you in the face.

When I was sixteen my father left town, I can remember thinking that was the exact moment things became real for me. Before that night things had always been so simple. Skateboard ramps and smoking pot in the tool shed- not exactly the biggest concerns to have; nope no potatoes to peel or asses to kiss there. Yeah, I was sixteen when my father left town, and three days later they found my mothers body. 

"You ever gonna take a break from those potatoes and look over here at me?" Angela was like that girl- you know the type I’m sure. Flawless skin, beautiful pert features- a real fuck bag. Which, on this particular day was just my type. 

Sure I’d take a break long enough to get a blowjob in the broom closet or a handjob out by the dumpster. Because what male do you know in the world who wouldn’t? But this doesn’t make me an asshole, nah- just a delightful little tid-bit. People as a whole are pretty dispensable- seriously. I mean just stop and think for a second about all the people you know and just how many of those very same people you’d be just fine without in your day to day life. It’s because they are disposable- completely irrelevant for survival. The point? Well the point is that the lovely miss Angela was probably thinking the exact same thing in regards to myself; I’m not the only horrible person in the world.

"I think I only get ten minutes today." I tell her, my eyes dragging over to take a look at the grease covered clock hanging on the wall. Ten or twenty minutes it didn’t matter, those potatoes would still be there, just towering over me. 

Fact:: My life is ever bit of the hell that I deserve