Oh Honey

by Emily R. Austin

The frigid outside has prompted me to toy once again with the idea of quitting smoking, but then how will I slowly kill myself?

I like to press sharp objects against myself and bleed. I consider this a recreational activity that has little to no negative ramifications on my everyday life. The one setback I have experienced is that people who see the marks either interpret them as a cry for help or for attention. I then receive their unwanted pity, or their judgement for being attention-seeking. The subject is embarrassing. I just like the sensation, and I believe that I should be able to amputate my own hand if I am so compelled. I am the sole owner of all of my own appendages.

Keats and I are exchanging pained expressions through the hole that I punched through the plaster wall that separates our bedrooms. "I think that you may have overreacted," he comments under his breath. I do occasionally overreact.

"Hello my name is Lo. I am calling on behalf of Krippler Incorporated. Today we are conducting a survey on feline diabetes. Do you or any member of your household own a cat?" "I am on the do not call list!" "Please let me assure you that I am not selling any—" They hang up. "Hello my name is Lola. I am calling on behalf of—" They hang up. "Hello my name is Dolly. I am calling on behalf of—" They hang up. "Hello my name is Dolores. I am calling on behalf of—" They hang up. "Hello my name is Lolita. I am calling on behalf of Krippler Incorporated. Today—"

She is deluded enough to assume that I could feel romantically for a person with a badly drawn dog tattooed to their arm. In reality I suspect that I am incapable of feeling romantically for any, even normal, person.

I was blindsided when the doctor told me that I was pregnant. More blindsided than your typical pregnant thirteen-year-old because I was not familiar with how any women got pregnant to begin with.

"Where the hell are all the knives, Jane?" Keats storms into my bedroom. I have piled Cheetos on the front of my shirt and am eating them lying down. "Where the fuck are they?" he asks me again. "What’s troubling you, Keats?" I look at him, my cheeks stuffed like a hamster’s.

In reality, my quietness is a consequence of my deeply entrenched nihilism. I don’t believe there is any real value in my or anyone else’s speaking, and I think that all of human existence is fundamentally unimportant.

You can’t see your own face from within it. This is something I have always struggled with.

Had I not been suicidal prior to my hospital visit, I would be now. My clothing has been confiscated and, in what feels like a personal attack, I am now being forced to wear a paper dress embellished with several illustrations of Snoopy the dog.

I had just about come to terms with the no-floss rule until the hospital, in a flagrant display of disrespect for its patients, chose to serve us corn on the cob for lunch. "Are you aware that we are not allowed dental floss?" I yelled at the nurse bringing me the corn. I then threw the corn violently from my plate into the nearest wall.