down in me

The pitch. You know, the pitch. The pitch for the book man, the pitch the PITCH.

Fuck.

What are you doing? I don’t know. Exchanging a momentary thrill for a lifetime of office christmas parties and crackers. Not sleeping. Eating poorly. Drinking in moderation. Where are you going with all of this, you had it in your mind, had it so crystal there once. Everything you would say, how you would say it and when and with what emphasis on which word - and the right words. My god the right words. Words clean and true and unmistakably genuine. Felt. Understandable. But also open to positive interpretations and with rooms for discussion in houses of concern.

The fucking pitch, man. You can’t talk.

Okay, listen. I’m just a girl so I don’t know much about these things, right. But it seems to me - because I have been doing some thinking - I know crazy, right? - funny fuck - it just seems to me that the way we are going about this is all wrong.

You can talk, all right? You can talk now. Toucan sam, three bottles of aspirin, that bicycle you let them run into the lake, the video camera he took while you were out getting him breakfast with that video of you trying to show your friends how to be cool on acid. Your mother’s reprehensible face melting distorted. The time you threatened your stepfather with a glass bottle and how you would have killed him if he hadn’t backed the fuck up.

God, you would have killed.