Ponies That Can’t Stand Up….

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I couldn’t stand the sound of the birds chorus, so I found my nearest pair of earplugs and shoved them in my ears. I probably damaged my ear drums in the process, but it was all for the better. I figured most sounds weren’t worth hearing, especially sounds which disrupted my own chain of thought. Each bird had its own tone, it’s own melody, it’s own set of expressions it used to gather the attention of some other bird similar to itself. I always figured a bird had it easy. Travel was simple for a bird. Travel was foolish for a human. For me. There were far too many germs lying about waiting to be intercepted onto my luggage. Onto my hands. In my mouth. I always worried about a bird shitting right into my mouth. That almost terrified me more than the DMV but that was a different story. Lines…Lines….Lines…I felt like the Grinch, but I know I wasn’t some caricature of a man. I was a real man. I knew I was real because I was an individual, unlike everyone else. Just like all those characters I had read about. I was that guy but better. School didn’t mean shit to me. My parents were morons. And so were those stupid birds. As long as they wouldn’t shit in my mouth. God, that would be terrible. I really had a serious fear about some bird shitting in my mouth. I bet no one else had a fear like that. That is what made me unique. My fears.

I remember my father liked beer. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. It made me bloated and I farted a lot. I didn’t always drink it. I was more of a clear liquor kind of guy. If I was sad. If I wasn’t worried about birds shitting in my mouth then I wouldn’t feel the need to drink, but if I was fearful…well, I either slept or drank, or both. Reading became boring after a few years. T.V. was also kinda of boring, but I found the flashing lights entertaining. All of those personalities reminded me of myself. Just as long as those stupid chorus’ of feathered shit mongers didn’t wake me up.

I saw a person who hated me yesterday. I told her how great it was to see her again. I don’t think she believed me. It didn’t matter. As long as I kept up the facade that I was interesting and liked interesting people I would be golden. Golden like King Midas would be the next reference I would use. I remembered it from a movie my babysitter use to play when she was bored of talking to me. Next time I encountered that person who hated me I would say they reminded me of King Midas, then they might find me interesting.

I saw that person again, but I forgot the reference I was going to make. Instead I looked at them for too long in the grocery line. I smiled and said it was amazing to see them again, but I probably overdid it. I was clearly overthinking the situation and decided that they were a piece of shit and that it didn’t matter if they thought I was interesting at all. I remember the word shit so vividly. I wonder if that was why I was so worried about some bird shitting in my mouth. There was also a score of pigeon that sat on the awning of the grocery store, glaring at me.

Everyday grew tiresome and lonesome, or so I assumed that what I was suppose to feel. The books I pretended to read and the media I watched told me that is how people felt, but I wasn’t exactly sure that is what I actually felt. I felt stupid and smart. I felt like the best. I felt like I was the only one who knew how stupid everything was. I was a regular Holden Caulfield or Stephen Hero, I couldn’t quite remember which book I connected with more. Or which book I pretended to connect with more. Sometimes I worried that people could smell me. Smell that I didn’t remember which book I liked more. Or that I pretended to read. It didn’t matter to the grapefruit I hated to eat. I didn’t put sugar on it because someone had called me a pussy once for doing that.

I saw that person who hated me again, but I nearly forgot the game I was playing with them. I faltered only for a moment and recovered my balance and recanted how much I too enjoyed that T.V. show we had been talking about for the past month. It was so much easier to think about myself and the things I liked rather than the things other people liked. I wonder if she liked grapefruit as well or if she just pretended to like it as I did. As least in that case we might have something in common. I would bring up grapefruit the next time we ran into one another.

My apartment was small. I never thought to get a house. I remember never having a house as a child, so why would I have one as an adult? I remember that houses were for families, and that was something that I never planned on having. A family seemed foolish. There were already too maybe people bumping into one another. It seemed silly to make more of them. Well, maybe I wanted to make more of them, but was well adjusted enough to know that no one in there right might would have one with me. Man or women. Adoption or pregnancy was out of the question. I was too well adjusted to make that mistake.

My place had an interesting smell. I’m pretty sure it was my upstairs neighbor. I thought he hated me, but I think we are fairly indifferent to one another. Sometimes it sounds like he has people over, but I think it is just his ex-wife coming over for alimony checks. Then again I don’t know shit about the guy. At least I thought it was a guy. I wasn’t into defining people’s genders or sexes or whatever was appropriate for the day. He could be what he wanted to be for all I cared. I wondered if people thought about me. I wondered if they thought about if I thought about ever wanting to be a women. I figure most people thought about it, so why wouldn’t they think about me thinking about it. I figured everyone did that at some point.

It was really hard to get on the plane when my mother died. I was assured we wouldn’t crash, but I wished I had just taken a cab. I didn’t have the money for that long of a cab ride though. The peanuts were stale. I was pretty sure they served muskrat for lunch. I was sure that the stewardess was into me. If the flight was going to go down, I was going to be the one to save her from her boring existence. The funeral was boring. I cried. I think it was because everyone else did, and the music was satisfying in that respect. There were bagpipes on a hill. I thought it was too fancy, but then again I’m pretty sure my mother’s side was Irish. I don’t know if that was significant. I was asked far too many questions and I think her relatives regretted my existence. Well, they were no better than that women I kept running into a home. Or was she a man. It was getting harder to tell. I really tended to concentrate on people’s mustaches. I began to realize that everyone had a mustache. They could be beautiful or poorly managed. I noticed my dead mother managed her final mustache well.

I saw that women again and told her she had an excellent mustache. She yelled; the manager of the grocery store told me that I should not shop there anymore. I dropped the grapefruit and left. The pigeons glared. There must be days where neither one of them were there. I sulked at home and ate pizza for a few days. Who needs to shop and nearly get shit on when a man will bring a pizza to you. Pizza is every food. Pizza is good.