Anyway I’m keeping it real at the OfficeMax, there in the printer paper aisle, feeling pretty good about being born and alive and in this moment. Not to brag but I’ve got some extra bills in my roll since the Lady Speed Stick settlement so I decide to splurge on the Premium Elite. I figure my beautiful words deserve to nestle their heads ‘pon something with a precipitously high thread count, so.
I go home and the glistening ream sits there for about a year because I don’t write anything, choosing instead to focus on eating lots of different kinds of cured meats and perfecting my crying jags. But then one day I type out a poem I think is worthy of being printed on the good stuff and staplegun’d to that one telephone pole out by the train yard where the tougher, edgier writers post their work?
So I open the package of paper and slide out a sheet and notice it’s covered with bloody fingerprints! I resolve at once to get to the bottom of this mystery. I fashion a magnifying glass from a shattered bottle of gin on my bedroom floor and some nearby licorice. I peer in close and immediately recognize the distinctive “tri-tittied” whorl pattern on the print—for it is mine!!
Then I realize I cut my fingies on the edges of the Premium Elite. They are extremely sharp! Clean-close-shave, cut-to-feel-something sharp. I nod, impressed. I feed the bloodstained page into the printer, which I got for free with the purchase of a 22 oz. Slurpee, convinced it would make my poem even better because what is poetry but one’s own passionate bloody gore splashed upon the page? Like, the page of society?
I pass out from blood loss, come to, reread the poem (Do you dare strike / Dat ass / And ride the quivering quake / To the foul Cauldron within), set the whole pack of paper on fire and then stare at nothing for a while, gnawing on a Hickory Farms Summer Sausage, vowing to try again next year.