I swore to her that I would give the dog a shower, but I also swore to her that I would eat the pot pie that we got, so that’s what goes into the microwave. The schmig tasting horrible. The flavor of juice that we have right now called white spirits. When it’s cooking bad it tastes like light beer. When it’s cooking worse it tastes like holding a battery to your tongue.

The pot pie is chicken. Here’s to hoping it makes me feel either better or pushes my tears over the edge. Unable to stop looking at the case for Diablo III and unable to put the disk in my Playstation. Trying not to drink for at least another hour. Trying not to look at Chaturbate, the spirit having faded since I found the leaked footage of Pansexualpixie cumming. She saying, you can cum with me guys. I want you to cum with me. It being days after she’d already made it. The sound of tips being a thing of the past.

The bowl of my pot pie not coming detached. Nevsky coming through the television speakers. An empty coffee mug with the letter of my first name in gold on the inside. A gift from Musette. Feeling like the last gift I gave her was an anniversary present that we both slept through.

Fondling at the edge of the pie with my fork. I swore I would give the dog a bath, his poop bags streaming from my pocket like billowing energy, the story of my life.

Don’t follow bibles, they say. He’s dangerous.

And I’m looking up at them like, my name is Chaubert…

It doesn’t need salt but I put it on anyways with pepper, never knowing when a heart attack is going to get you, or a stroke, or your leg getting run over by the train, unmindful of the gap. A mugging or a shotgun barrel against the back of your wife’s skull, being raised up into the fan, having your knife clipped to your belt above the right pocket. No gun on the dresser, but one back at home, in Utah.

Be inspired, my little mourning doves, I cry, looking to the rafters with Chop Suey Bang Bang running out of my sleeve. Skull flurry smoothie @gunk making messes of my ulcerated intestines. All chicken and carrots. A little nub of corn floating next to her green. Everything tangled up in blue. Alexander being the name of my best friend as we ramp up the battle on the ice, his wife, my wife, in hand, Hosanna.

Penelope on the horizon.

It’s alright, I say. I’m almost 33.

God, how long have we known each other now, she asks.

I tell her it’s almost been a year, back when I drank breast milk dressed as Christopher Walken, back before my best of friends, whom I betrayed, knew my face.