You: Sheltered Joe White Suburbanite, Your Avatar: Squeaky-clean pressed starch and tie “Republican” haircut neatly combed informing us all that “you would never walk through a crime ridden neighborhood flaunting your wallet; that’s just common sense”. Our mutual friend, he simply posted a meme about not assuming girls in “skimpy outfits” are asking to be raped. He’s right. Obviously not, because rape by it’s non-consensual definition can’t be asked for. But still you scramble for justifications why this isn’t true, that it’s still somehow her fault, her and her skimpy outfit and you come up with this bullshit about your wallet.
Men and boys can be raped too, and the damage to them is equal to the damage to us, but I can tell by the way your mind leaps to this inanimate object that you haven’t had it hammered into your head since puberty that this is a possibility. Your mind leaps to your wallet, an object made of leather that once was flesh, that you can access and open whenever you want to, the way you think the women you’d like to fuck should be…
Also bitch please, the only “crime ridden neighborhood” your smug pampered ass ever walks through is Wall Street.
I called out all your misinformed assumptions. I might dare say my counselor would have been proud of the way I did it; far more tactfully than this writing has been. More out of respect to Our Mutual Friend than to you. But now it’s time for stream of thought prose to reign supreme, fucker.
Your starched-scrubbed-clean-yuppie-supreme avatar incites my rage nearly as much as your rape-excusing words, my personal prejudice, I admit. Perfected in a crucible of years of being priced out of homes, sadistic slow-grind lap dance johns, and being bored. The sheen of clean on your smiling face looks more like sweat to me under poisonous florescent lights. Oozing out of pores churning with fetid bacteria you yourself are not aware of. The bacteria is you, completely programmed You. The pores on your forehead and cheeks widen and you take on a grey pallor. The fine point of an icepick digs in to dislodge these swirling things, these bacteria that fall out onto the skin of your lower face and neck and begin to gnaw at you. Yourself devouring yourself. At the same time the icepick slips and tears your face, which gives way in a sea of reds and salmons and pinks, underneath which is grey white and yellow bone, plates of skull. I take the accidental slip as a sign and dig the pick deeper, changing the angle to rip more are more of the flesh from your skull. Capillaries spurt and sinuses pop. Your skin gives way like a rubber mask because you forgot how to be real a long time ago, and a rubber mask is all that’s left.
I slice further and a thousand demons fly up into the air even as organs and entrails fall to the ground, blood seeping into the soil and startling awake worms and pillbugs and centipedes. Discombobulated they writhe over a new landscape of still warm gut, not knowing what else to do. I drop down on my haunches, careful not to actually sit or kneel in the toxicity of you. With the pick I trace patterns and kaleidoscopes of splattered color. I’m not so much diving the future though, as directing it.