The Story of a Man
PART 1...
I wasn't always like this.
Well, I mean…I WAS, I guess.
Maybe my eyes were closed.
Maybe my eyes were just...lying.
But the FEELING was always there, constantly bubbling in the dent of my chest.
I always felt that my insides were too big for my skin. Like any minute my skin would start to separate and let out my organs and my bones, which were dying to escape. I was a water balloon, on the brink of exploding, saturating the hands of whoever was dumb enough to keep filling me, testing my elastic sheath. Other people exaggerate and claim that they can see their heart beating ferociously out of their chests, pushing their skin out like a cartoon when they are scared, or excited, or when they catch Zoe kissing Stan in the back of the video store. Well…fuck those people. Because its not just my heart that I could see trying to escape. It was my lungs, my stomach, hell, sometimes I even saw the forms of chewed potato chips poking out through my throat as gravity and muscle contractions force them to descend to the hell that is my intestines. And it wasn't just when I was scared. It was when I was awake...
It was painful to watch. But not nearly as painful as not being ABLE to watch. When I think about it, my eyes never had the benefit of seeing the beauty that was painted on me all along. At least, not until HE came. I didn't know his name, hell I don't even know what he looked like (she? No, it wasn't a she…those dissipating footsteps weighed at least a good 200 lbs. and the only 200-pound woman I can think of who would be a delivery-man is Wanda Sykes but I'm pretty sure she's out on the road somewhere telling fucking retarded, high pitched jokes about the men who fail to bow down to her). Was he Cee-lo sized or was he that tall skinny fuck from road trip? Or if he was even human for that matter. At this point though, I don't think anyone is fully human. But I remember his knock. God, his knock. If I got robbed for 300 bucks, a book full of clichés
I wasn't always like this.
Well, I mean…I WAS, I guess.
Maybe my eyes were closed.
Maybe my eyes were just...lying.
But the FEELING was always there, constantly bubbling in the dent of my chest.
I always felt that my insides were too big for my skin. Like any minute my skin would start to separate and let out my organs and my bones, which were dying to escape. I was a water balloon, on the brink of exploding, saturating the hands of whoever was dumb enough to keep filling me, testing my elastic sheath. Other people exaggerate and claim that they can see their heart beating ferociously out of their chests, pushing their skin out like a cartoon when they are scared, or excited, or when they catch Zoe kissing Stan in the back of the video store. Well…fuck those people. Because its not just my heart that I could see trying to escape. It was my lungs, my stomach, hell, sometimes I even saw the forms of chewed potato chips poking out through my throat as gravity and muscle contractions force them to descend to the hell that is my intestines. And it wasn't just when I was scared. It was when I was awake...
It was painful to watch. But not nearly as painful as not being ABLE to watch. When I think about it, my eyes never had the benefit of seeing the beauty that was painted on me all along. At least, not until HE came. I didn't know his name, hell I don't even know what he looked like (she? No, it wasn't a she…those dissipating footsteps weighed at least a good 200 lbs. and the only 200-pound woman I can think of who would be a delivery-man is Wanda Sykes but I'm pretty sure she's out on the road somewhere telling fucking retarded, high pitched jokes about the men who fail to bow down to her). Was he Cee-lo sized or was he that tall skinny fuck from road trip? Or if he was even human for that matter. At this point though, I don't think anyone is fully human. But I remember his knock. God, his knock. If I got robbed for 300 bucks, a book full of clichés