You think that was extreme? How about the final final straw, the one that could have filled a whole barn with ungulate fodder bound up in bales eight feet high? You ready for this? They went out and got an eviction notice and taped it to the door of my room, as if that was going to mean anything to me, as if I cared what the Danbury Superior Court had to say about anything. But what a fool I am-I thought the final straw was when they dropped me from the family plan and I woke up one day with no cell service and, really, knock-knock, how do they expect me to get a job if I don’t have a phone? Is that so hard to figure out? Does that take higher reasoning? Putting fucking one and one together? The next final straw was when they brought in Lucas Hubinski, who was in high school with me back in the time before time, and had him put a lock on the refrigerator and the pantry, too, as if they were display cases at Tiffany’s. They’re old and weak and ridiculous and they know it, with their stained teeth and droopy necks and faces like masks cut out of sheets of sandpaper, with two holes poked for their glittery, hypercritical eyes to blaze through.
Shouting matches? If they want shouting matches, well, I’m more than equal to the task.
A musculoskeletal structure without the musculo.
They’d like that, wouldn’t they, their one and only child, who never asked to be born in the first place, reduced to an artifact in his own room in the only home he’s ever known? A memento mori. They can come in with police dogs and fire hoses and I’ll cling to the woodwork till I’m stripped to the bone.
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