Wake Up and Open Your Eyes

by Clay McLeod Chapman

How this feat of family acrobatics works—this horrid act of Oedipal gymnastics—is really truly anybody’s guess, but Mom is sent those few feet into the air, crashing into the enclosed space and landing in all those winter coats.

I want to be someone who matters

I don’t belong here…I don’t fit in with my own family…I don’t have any friends…I don’t have anyone…I wish I was somebody else…Anybody else…

Never go to bed angry. That had always been his mother’s advice. If something is sticking in your craw during the day, hon, you better get rid of it before you fall asleep. That anger embeds itself into your very soul, his mom always said. A spiteful seed.

It will grow inside you, if you’re not careful. Take root. Before you know it, whatever that anger is, it’ll become a part of you…and then it just gets harder to uproot. Anger is a weed.

Fax News Brain. It’s spreading. It’s communicable. Mad cow disease for conservatives.

What the fuck’s going on, guys? What’re we angry at?

The Washington Monument looms above it all, a massive erect penis poking at the cosmos, an ungodly cock throbbing above the mating masses, now a monument to debauchery.

You should have dealt with your fucked-up family when you had the chance. Now we’ve all got to deal with them. They’re our problem now. I’m not holding back.