Shallow Dance

by Matty Sullivan

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Smack in the Middle of the Bullshit

I’m already tired of this. At least nobody’s reading it, which is a strange consolation.

I’ve got a bothersome pain in the left side of my neck. I keep rubbing the muscles and twisting my head at awkward angles, but I get no relief. It’s an old story and we’ve all lived it and I’m sure we all know what it means, but to tell the truth I’m tired of thinking about it. Every situation has its truth, right smack in the middle of the bullshit. It shines upon the world like a headlamp, a lighthouse surrounded by fog and muddy water. But that doesn’t mean I have to care or even notice. The truth will do just fine without me.

Lately, I’ve been getting angry a lot. It hasn’t helped—just makes other people angry. Then we yell and call each other names and the only thing we’re yelling about is each other’s anger. I can’t even recall if there’s anything to be angry about, unless it’s the simple fact of being alive and having to be bothered with breathing and walking and so on. Digesting food. Elimination. Sleeping is nice, but even that can be stressful. It has to be at a certain time and when it’s over I feel cheated. I’m always glad to be going to sleep but never to be waking up. What does that mean?

I have nothing to say, but I feel as if I should fill up a little more space. Of course, I could fill up ten thousand pages without a sweat if I had absolutely no concern for what I was saying. But giving a shit tends to take time. For example, it has taken me twenty minutes to get this far into this entry.

But this:

    Give love take heat fall apart and don’t give a shit about rats’ asses and all the rest of the fucking moronic stuff and if I don’t like it who cares because I’m going to be eaten by maggots one day and I could give less than a bucket of paint about the consequences of anything that I read on the yahoo website but I read it anyway and my mom doesn’t call but neither do I and when I think about ants I get a funny look on my face without telling anyone.

That took about twenty seconds.

Which one do you like better?

If I wanted, I could simply repeat that until I died and people would wonder at my prolixity. The sheer volume of my work would stagger the imagination. Maybe I could program a computer to do it for me, so I would have time for talk shows and book-signings. I could be Jesus at that point. Instead of fasting in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights, I could pound out nonsense on a word processor, forever and ever without end, not stopping, not even to use the bathroom, going on and on and on until finally my entire personality is burned away and I burst through into some higher plane of existence and the world loses its grip on me. I would emerge as the Messiah and people would come to me, asking to hear my wisdom and be healed. ‘Leave me alone!” I would say. “I’m tired!”