I’m going to paint you something. It’s the first picture I’m recreating this summer. Inside. Late at night. I’m going to draw it in your mind.
Empty Gatorade bottle with the big opening. Half of a watermelon RedBull. Spoonful of B12 powder. Potassium supplement. Shot of vodka. One Xanax. My bed, an AirBar, a gravity bong, some weed.
I don’t smoke weed anymore ever since my string of psychotic breaks, but because you are me, you smoke weed, and drive yourself crazy trying to piss out the excessive b12 and the excessive taurine.
It’s 2020. We’ve deconstructed teen drinking as a culture so it is no longer subversive. So you don’t have anxiety due to drinking in public with your friends.
You have anxiety because of the social and economic state of the world right now. You take Xanax every time you drink because of this anxiety, but you don’t have anxiety, you just TAKE XANAX BEFORE YOU DRINK.
One thing I really want you to try this summer is taking sleeping pills and eating a fiesta-size bag of Takis in one sitting and then throwing it up so you don’t remember any of it. Do this while watching videos of Korean women eating seafood to the point of abuse. Do this while your TikTok color changing lights flash blue. Light-up monitor cat ear headphones Overwatch Tracer on your wall.
Never kill yourself. Kill yourself a little bit. Eat your own tail. Jerk yourself off. Look at all of the people that love you around you. Someone on Reddit r/nootropics responds to your comment:
Of course you’ve tried working out. You did the Chloe Ting ass workout for ten minutes this morning. You ran around your house peeling your eyelids off. You blew up balloons then let them float to the ceiling so you’d autoerotically asphyxiate.
You took out your ribs to suck your imaginary cock. You listened to the new Young Thug album but it doesn’t do anything for you anymore. You tripped on a homeless guy with a snot bubble on your stoop but that doesn’t do anything for you anymore either.
Five years later you are my grandmother, who raised me and will die soon. You drink watered-down lukewarm Smirnoff every night because it’s normal. You click the Temu banner ads on Facebook because I won’t call you, because I’m busy going to edgelord college getting a degree in alt lit. The computer spits out red letters, you talk to Vikram and Danesh from Verizon and they tell you they just need the password to your PayPal. You watch a video on Facebook. P. Diddy has been charged with necromancy.
Vikram and Danesh help you find the password box. They lead you through the process gently, tenderly. You think about them touching you. You would let Vikram and Danesh touch you, because I won’t call you, and you’re lonely.
You give Vikram and Danesh the $800 in your savings account because they promise they’ll use it to fly you out. To Miami. Give you a girl’s trip. For your granddaughter too. And maybe they’ll meet you, wearing your pearls from the 50s with your face caked in glam. Dick is dick, but the possibility of new dick will cost a woman everything. Possibility in general will cost you everything. It’s better to stay inside, where you will be safe.
Leya ivanov is a writer who is better read on desktop. You can find her on Hobart Pulp, donotsubmit, Spectra Poets, and other stuff. her twitter is @Canihiturvape instagram @leya0_o. flieshavetheirhouse.tumblr.com/leya for more goodies.
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Dick is dick