“Just write something… fucking anything” I think to myself, staring at the blank word document open in front of me. A whiskey filled glass to the left of my laptop, and an almost hollow bottle right behind it on my desk.
“Fucking anything.” I think again.
“Oh, what’s the point, I’m terrible at this.” I say out loud, as if anyone in my empty studio apartment would hear me. But this apartment has been empty for years. Even I don’t feel present.
I was obviously met by silence; In my head, in the room. The vapor from my spliff floats up, the tendrils of smoke resting in the still air. I grab it out of the ash tray and take a drag.
“I’m thinking about this too much, maybe if I shower, I can think of something.” I get up, smother the cherry on my half-smoked joint, go to my bathroom, and flip on the light. I begin to strip my layers off. As I begin this ritual I partake in at most once a week, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
“Disgusting” I think to myself. Looking over every inch of my body, I begin growing more and more hatred for the person I see. Body hair, oversized nipples, fat on my gut, my arms, my thighs, my ass. And not the good kind of fat on my ass. I examine my dry, cracking lips, which caused me to open my mouth to look at my teeth; yellow, crooked. A foul odor rises out of my mouth, over my thin, flat lips and into my nose.
My teeth are all I can think about now. I turn on the shower, extra hot water so I can practice burning in hell. The steam is also a great veil to cover the horrid monster that lives in my bathroom mirror.
I try to think of something, anything to write about, but all I could ponder were my putrid chompers. I get more and more uncomfortable, the shapes, the gaps, the loose ones, the irritated receding gums. I got the idea to jack off to try to get some clarity. Yet, after the cum drips off my fingertips, I could think about nothing but my foul mouth. I wonder if anyone else can see it, if it’s all they see about me. I began to make up scenarios.
“I couldn’t even pay attention to what she was saying, all I could think was ‘fuck, those teeth are fucked up.’” They probably think. I don’t blame them either, I wouldn’t even be able to pay attention. All the seminars, and failed book signings, and interviews. As my status dropped, so did my cleanliness. Caring for myself seemed not worth it, and now I’m paying the price for it. I’ve gone full circle, back to wanting to take care of myself, but its too late. Only surgeries and bleach can fix me, maybe even a noose.
“I was a best-selling author. I was on talk shows, I was the pride of my hometown. what the fuck happened to me? Where did the passion go? How did I become so hollow? When did my passion turn into a job? When did my job become… this?”
I turn off the water grab the towel off the rack and dry myself. I don’t even get dressed when I return to my desk. I just sit, bare-assed on my thirty-dollar throne, and skull my glass of whiskey. Then pour another, then skull that one.
“Three empty vessels at my desk” I think to myself.
Then it hit me
“I’ll just write about my teeth.”