The Lunacy of a Mexican Man in Arizona
The Untitled Man
I am currently washing my clothing because I am a successful male. I have an apartment where I pay $1,600 in rent. I have internet acesss, a Netflix subscription, and a magnificent bed where I rest my head. On the bed, there is a woman with large breasts and a posterior crafted by the pervert known as God. The woman’s name is Tabitha and I make love to her every night. She snores and falls into a deep slumber as the Erotes whisper beautiful things into her ears. I stand at my balcony naked and drink black coffee. My penis is erect; I am a successful male.
I apologize for the satire, but I’ve been told by the motivational gods that one must “speak into existence” what is desired. I find this sentiment to be absolutely idiotic and bordering on lunacy. I actually repeated those clandestine words in my car and I laughed; I could not stop laughing.
I direct messaged another woman on Instagram today. She is 35. It seems that with every 10,000 direct messages sent to women on Instagram, you will get one response. It’s glorious when you get a response, but pathetic. I find myself having to choose between two personas when that glorious response comes:
“Ah, my dear… you’ve responded. Serendipitous joy or melancholic misery? Which one will you cause me? I am Michael, a god cast down from Mount Olympus. Who might you be? Tell me your name.”
“You tryna meet up? We can smoke and chill if you want?”
I desire to make the most out of Arizona. A fantastic job, a magnificent apartment, and a cutthroat capitalistic desire to succeed even if it means stepping over the figurative carcasses of my peeers. If I have those three things, my satiristic interpretion of success can become a reality. I don’t know what that would be like. What would Tabitha do? Would she be a career woman? A housewife? A creative soul? What if she had male friends? Would I be okay with it? When it concerns women that live with me, I imagine in the recesses of my mind a particular story that was told in an episode of Matthew Weiner’s “Mad Men.” It’s something that Pete Campbell told Peggy Olson and it encapsulates a warped, sexually arousing idea of what my relationship with proverbial Tabitha would be like:
Pete Campbell: “You ever been hunting, Peggy?”
Peggy Olson: “No, I don't think so.”
Pete Campbell: “You either have or you haven't. I went a couple of times with my uncle in New Hampshire.”
Peggy Olson: “I saw my cousin shoot a rabbit by Coney Island.”
Pete Campbell: “It's an incredible sensation. You have to be very quiet. Take it down with the first shot or you scare it away. And sometimes you have to go up and finish it off. Then you tie it to the bumper, and you go home. But you know what I've always wanted to do? I would pick it up throw its back legs over my shoulder and I would drag it through the snow to this little cabin. And there I'd hang it up between a couple of trees, cut it open, drain it, dress it and then I'd take my big hunting knife and I'd cut this loin right out of the side. And I'd go into the cabin and there'd be this woman waiting for me, standing by one of those old stoves with a big black pipe and I'd hand it to her and she'd put it in a cast-iron skillet and then I'd sit at the table and she'd bring it to me. And I'd wipe my knife on my knee and then I would eat it while she watches.
Peggy Olson: That would be wonderful.
I have nothing else to say.
- The Untitled Man