but then you'd think you're the one to blame
He ate raw beef carpaccio last weekend. Bloody, from a cow who’d been massaged into submission, finally lowering its large eyes to the ground. Deep breath, and then a captive bolt pistol through the forehead.
In an attempt to seem refined, he ordered the carpaccio on a date last weekend, despite the fact his date was a vegetarian. He hadn’t known until the first bite was in his mouth.
That was all it took, one bite, one swallow.
Poor infected cow meat, wasted life thrown into the trash.
Now, tapeworms are crawling through his belly, and the biology of his system is fucked up. He’s begun to lose weight with no explanation. His date is now a fiancé, and at night when they lie back to back, he runs his fingers through his broken lover, who can’t understand why he is never satisfied anymore. Literally, and carnally.
The second piece of his unhappiness was never about the tapeworms but held the same principle. He could no longer enjoy.
Pleasure of sex, food, books, music, living, and the tapeworm had simply killed his appetite. Crazy from his unhappiness however, he blamed everything on the parasite inside of him, instead of the parasite of his life.
Last week he shot himself between the eyes,stunned just like his bovine counterpart, dying in submission, and dismay.
“We need to make books cool again. If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them”
- John Waters
