I had become an altar boy because I was hoping to be molested. Didn’t work. I stopped wearing underwear because it made me feel like a porn star ready at a moment’s notice. The moment never came. I tried to join an incel group. Just made me want to shoot my new brothers. Octopuses are incredibly intelligent and my uncle owns a diving company. Thought maybe there was a chance at an interspecies romance. The octopus I met just thought it was fun to unhook my oxygen tank. I suppose in a way, all these instances had fucked me. Just not in the way I’d imagined. Life is like that sometimes, right? Gives you lemons, you make lemonade, slip in a roofie, accidentally imbibe the dosed drink, and wake up not remembering how you fucked yourself. #redefiningFML!
Maybe I was going about this all wrong. Entirely. So I cut my penis off one day. Cutting board on the table, me on my tip toes, upper thighs pressed up against edge, butcher’s blade swung down hard and decisively, cauterized with a culinary blow torch immediately after. My take on crème brulee. The intoxicating smell of burnt pubes wafting about. This might not have been my smartest decision. Nor was it my worst. (Don’t ask.)
I got a little obsessed. Started cutting off other body parts. A finger. A couple toes. We live in a society with too many things. Tried cutting out a rib. You know, kind of experience the same thing Adam did. Wasn’t going to try and make a female out of it. I don’t have a God complex or anything like that. It’s fucking hard to try and cut through a rib. I passed out. The hospital staff were no longer buying my “work accident” explanations.
Couple months later, I met a woman named Sally on line. She seems wonderful. Generous. Kind. Beautiful. We’re supposed to meet in person this Friday for coffee. I’m just not sure how to explain to her the parts of me that are missing.