My puckered anus spits its contents into the bowl like a cherry pit. Satisfied, it closes up shop, I wipe its chin clean. I send it to its room. I pack up. I fly home. I drive off in my car. I shave my head and get tattoos, mumbling crazy nonsense. I cover my naked noggin with a hoodie and bravely face the cold night that is suddenly illuminated by phosphorescent lightning flashes. It’s twelve minutes past unglued, and I seriously need to get to Crazytown in a hurry. I’m late. If you read about me in the paper tomorrow it’s because the police found my two children covered with lipstick scars and razorblade kisses. I took a restful bath in their baby blood thinking it might clear my head a bit. That will explain the dried rusty colored shit that’s flaking up and falling like Valentine confetti onto the linoleum floor while you pace around with your pad and pencil not letting me rest. I’m so tired. So exhausted. You should’ve taken them from me the minute the cords were cut. I used to be somebody. I’m not sure who though. Is there a bathroom in here? I think I need to cry.