A THING by L SCULLY
I don’t want to be a writer
The day before the solar eclipse I say yes twice to the organ, eye, and tissue donor question. I say yes the first time so you can hear me and the second time so I can hear myself. The woman at the computer pops her gum at a glowing screen. If I die of natural causes it’ll be a miracle. The screen tells me almonds are a member of the peach family. You watch World of T-shirts Tiktoks and I fantasize about hitting my head on the bathroom floor. I often mistake laziness for consideration because everything I know is stupid and wrong. Men on Tinder are begging to be loved. Women on Tinder are begging to be respected. And me, I don’t know. I want someone to watch me brush my teeth. My first tooth fell out of my head when I bit into a nectarine pit, the cousin of almonds. Scrawny Catholic tooth at the gay pride church. I used to have cousins a couple elections ago. Gum pops and I think this lady needs what my mom calls an attitude adjustment. Like when you’re grumpy and it’s bringing everyone else down. Last night I nearly tripped exiting the shower and without realizing it, I said aloud: I hope I’m not myself in the next life. I looked in the mirror at my resting beloved face. I plucked out my nipple hairs like petals from a daisy: you love me, you love me not. In the Bureau of Motor Vehicles I stumble over my words. The Bureau has the intimacy of a childhood bedroom. I always put my foot in my mouth on my way to sucking your dick. I don’t want to be a good communicator, I want to get laid. What I should say to Gum Popping Lady is: Give my body to science, but donate my heart to the internet. I live my life one spilled glass of water to the next. We leave with my temporary government ID. That night I dream a tiger climbed a telephone pole in Cleveland and had to be rescued by the fire department. The half-light of the sky kiss makes me vomit. I make a joke that my sister’s boyfriend is going to propose during the three minutes of totality and ruin everything. My sister’s boyfriend says a funny thing while we discuss the Ancients’ perceptions of major cosmic events. He says: if you can build a birdhouse these days you’re a fucking magician.
L Scully (they/them) is a living writer.