A zillion years ago, a big, huge lump of dirt fell on the ground, but it didn’t hit the ground, it just kinda stopped falling and started to float. Or maybe it never stopped falling. Maybe we still are falling. Who knows. Nobody I know really can say they saw it, so it’s all speculation for real.
So, whatever. This big, huge ball of dirt, of mud, of soil, it kinda has to spin to stay floating (or falling) and eventually (the same way old bread gets moldy, the same way old cheese curdles, the same way old milk gets thick and chunky) this big spinning hanging ball of dirt, well it got wet and (maybe it was already wet before but) then it started growing green stuff like mold but actually times a bajillion, like super huge mold, but also minus the way that mold makes you choke. Because this green stuff actually helps you breathe. So I’ve been told. Also popular speculation.
Also, shit got mixed up and moved around on the surface as things naturally do when they’re spinningfallingfloating in space. And then, boom, there are dips and rises on this lump.
Do you see what I’m getting at here? That’s how it all started. The landscape, at least. The lil blank canvas upon which people did their thang and continue to do so. Except for the fact that it wasn’t a lil blank canvas, it was a huge, dirty floatyfally lump. But people always use the term blank canvas so I’m showing you how dumb that term is while also using this perfect example of new beginnings.
So. Now, somehow there are these teeny, tiny, little squirming, crawling larvas. Just like how they show up on old steaks, they show up on this lump. I don’t know how, it doesn’t really matter. Or no, zoom in. Okay. Now, they’re clearly people. Of people-size. Now things go much slower, but, to the little people, seem much, much quicker. Because they quickly become consumed with themselves. And a little bit consumed with each other, but this is just mostly an extension of their self-obsession. They get bored and nosiness temporarily subsidizes the pangs of that emptiness. And scientifically speaking, when your head is wrapped around itself or your nose is planted in everyone else’s butt, the world spins quicker. (Which is to probably in an attempt to shake all these little bugs off its surface. Scientifically speaking.)
Well anyways, the people get so involved with each other, they get so stuck in each others’ butts to entertain themselves, to numb themselves to their self-obsession, to be nosy, they get so stuck in each others’ butts they find ways in to each other, so they can wear each other, be each other, be in each other. Which is called fucking. And everyone does it, but in different ways, and nobody is supposed to talk about it. A universal truth kept hush hush.
All the people fuck and then they fight when the other ones don’t like them up their butt or because maybe being nosey isn’t enough anymore and they just want to fight and at first it’s words, then fists, then tools, and they want to fight until they see reaction, then until they see bruise, then until they see blood. Until they kill. And this creates a new hunger in them, like fucking, but darker.
And then it gets really old, the fighting and the fucking, so the people expand and they fuck a whole lot of people and make a big, huge fuss about it, about each other, and who everyone is fucking. And the people expand and start fighting, start killing a whole lot of people, on a wildly large scale. They say because he stepped on my foot! Or he stepped inside my person! But it’s really because they’re bored or they’re unsatisfied or they’re just following everyone else who is bored or unsatisfied. They fuck about fighting and fight about fucking and they’re all fucking idiots, really, because they’re all the same, really.
And even though they’re all the same, really, they decide they don’t want to be, because they’re still so nosey and they still want to be in each other’s business/butts and it’s less interesting to them if they are the same as whoever’s butt they’re up, so they decided to differentiate based on dumb things like teeth and skin and where they’re standing, and they all want to stand where each other are, but also where they currently stand, everyone wants it all, and so they start fighting and they start killing about that, too.
And nothing’s really changed and everyone is still fucking and fighting and killing and they pretend to have reasons and they pretend to be different and they pretend they’re not bored and like everyone else and they pretend it’s a secret, even though everyone else does it too, and they try to find things to help them pretend they’re different. And then MTV, VH1 and ABC Family help them pretend, helps the world become liars.
And now some fucker is reading this right now, because maybe they want to pretend too, maybe because they’re still self-obsessed in the way they’re in everyone else’s business, maybe because they’re still trying not to think about getting shook off the lump, but who knows, it doesn’t really matter, because we’re still just larva people fuckingfightingpretending on the fallingfloatingspinning lump of dirt. Who cares.
A recent graduate of Virginia Tech, art and creative writing double major Angel Amores could usually be found with “the local art, open mic and hip hop scene in Blacksburg” or in her “messy, dirty, nasty, chaotic studio space” above TOTS. Her creations are inspired by everything: “the good, bad, ugly, boring, all of it gets internalized by me and then translated into my art or writing.” She’s an admirer of the art and writing of Rachel B. Glaser, especially the recording of her poem, “I am an Orchid.” Although Amores describes herself as “pretty self-obsessed and anxious like everyone else,” Amores herself is “not actually usually as bitter as this piece makes me (the narrator) sound.” “I think the world is pretty dope and I hope I don’t get shook off anytime soon,” she said.
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