This Is Called My Math Professor Wants to Know If I’m Really Taking Notes
Yesterday, I talked about Bill Gates and stunted technology. And I was laughing and cosigning and wondering what I was talking about. My professor, with his fingers, spouted ideas I didn’t care about. Supply and demand, the cheese and the ham, the president the man. But I had gotten some sleep so I just crossed my knees while my father left me message after message.
And it’s weird because I usually ignore them whether I’m in class or not. I love the man but I don’t remember hugging him. Everything is confined when I’m around like when I got into his car later that evening and his phone slid underneath my thigh. So he was doing this thing with his right hand but instead improvised it toward the radio. And with his left hand, he went for it, jolted, and then itched his face. So while it was ringing, he was slightly fighting with himself to grab it.
I’ve racked my brain about this. And I’ve never noticed that I cannot call him at all. It’s always, “Hey.” or “You.” or “Yo, dude I need food today.” Meanwhile, my mother is just making progress from their divorce. I could sense it; she just recovered from something he did freshman year in high school.
And of course, that was my fear— to fall in love by the time I was fourteen and sort of elope and start a family and frame these people in this American dream. A few have managed to get me to be infatuated with them and their depth. Even the ones with
average-white-guy-penises the what-is-that-a-penis? What is there to caress? They’re like daemons drawing me into death. And a trap where I’m stuck and only left to be impressed. “Wow, you got me.” I usually think, pointing my finger at, yes, at you. And I promise myself that next time, I’m never ever going to be wooed.
I’m not in fazed by these people. People are fazed by Times Square New York. And the grime and the orchestra and the rice on their forks. And the chortles and the work and the need I say more. It’s a fantasy. It’s adrenaline. It’s a motherfucking chore.
Studies show that fantasies are the number three of awful heartbreaks. I was reading a Bureau of some statistic but it said the content was subject to change. Anyway, the first is cunnilingus and it’s a cause I’m going to develop. So many deaths; so many odes go to unions only focusing on fellas. On felacio, on deep throats, on not using the teeth. But I guess it makes sense because sometimes women want to feel meek when they’re clutching to their triceps in the middle of the street. And what I see in a man’s eyes when I’m reaching for his thigh is, “I can’t believe she’s gonna touch it.” And right there, I want to die. And the second is blatant unhappiness. It’s macabre. It’s alone. It’s not returning someone’s call. It’s ignoring the dog with the bone. I mean, there’s lunch and there’s brunch and there’s snack time. Crunch, crunch. I just used an onamonapia because I couldn’t find a rhyme just this once. But I used to get these hunches and I’d throw myself at people. And I wouldn’t feel reciprocated and I’d become very feeble. And I‘d give up. And it’s so annoying because my former roommates hate when I don’t speak to them for three months.
I’m not mended. I was planted and my veins are a bit red. You’re probably gonna get to itching so I advise you to look ahead.
But if we had to blame someone, I think my mother is the best candidate because she troubles my sisters and me on the P. And our hormones are raging. And she’s just such a D. And my father contradicting by not telling me to move my thigh. And this kid in South Florida who taught me how to get high. And Mark Bellison on the television who taught me how to lie. And the nuns at my parochial school who really, really tried. But it wasn’t enough and so, sadly, I eventually had to die. Too wrapped in the fantasy of art and animation. And colors and food and
Ninja Turtles hallucinations over there. And I get scared and I curdle and I sit and I glare. And I get to thinking that a plant did this and it just isn’t fair.