Today I downed some vodka after school. Otto was there but he didn’t drink anything. He brought along his typewriter and we sat in my bedroom and ordered a pizza. At three in the afternoon. You know, some days I wish Otto would just go crazy. He’s too nice. I want him to snap my rib cage open and bury his face in my cavernous chest and come out and kiss me with my blood on his teeth. I want him to really like me.
I am Ben Willoughby. A car struck me dead but I am alive. There are red streaks across the pavement where I once lay; they look like the stripes of our flag. I am Ben Willoughby, I come back swishing angels in my mouth. I died red and he will die pale, watch as they hang him and burn flowers at his feet. What do you mean I am not Ben Willoughby?
Some things are unforgivable. When he dug into me the thing between my legs became a mouth. It spewed curses and now he is buried where my mouth cannot bite him. Girls: you are more terrifying than you know. He will remember you and he will burn, he will die and he will burn, and when you piss on his grave at night he will taste you and call you Maria.
(Evil evil evil oh shit here he comes. Malice—bladed edges—trees bleeding sap when he passes by; he sucks them dry. He sucks and sucks and sucks everything dead: flora and fauna and faunlets and saints. What do we pray to, where do we go? Andrew is Rome, Andrew is Avignon, Andrew is cathedrals with child-bone organs. Andrew is our holy land, Andrew is our mecca. Andrew is what happens when God is an infant.)