Your clit is tingling.
Your overweight husband is playing video games in the living room while eating a poorly-made sandwich you put together.
You’re waiting for your bi-weekly check to come so you can go buy that hand bag you saw hanging from a celebrity’s elbow on US Weekly.
You’re a bit of a cunt.
You spend your money before you have it, and rarely ever pay it back in full. You’re Lady Liberty, moist and loose, drooling over that Wet American Dream; fast-forwarded surreal misfortune, eyes locked on the television screen — Netflix binge. You’re lost, but for certain hours of the day you’re distracted, shut away in your cubicle, your corner in the maze — you’ll find your way out eventually, that’s what the hope is: this dream that things will change — someday you’ll open up that restaurant you’re always talking about, or get the raise your boss keeps promising, you’ve started baking cakes and selling them — this’ll take off, you’re sure — you’re flying your new drone around the neighborhood and making videos on YouTube — you’re going to be a fuckin’ star — viral, sex appeal, short-term attention span, lacking spirituality, miserable, can’t wait until it’s Friday, weekend’s too short — your grandmother just died; can’t pay the bills, caskets are fuckin’ expensive — what a fuckin’ downer this reality really is: where’s the dream? You’re dripping wet, ready for it — but it’ll never come, it only gets more difficult.
What to do? Quit dreaming, masturbate and move on; you’re in it: that worthwhile wish-wash is rolling over you but you’re too much of a pussy to kill yourself, so you better start figuring out where this maze ends.
Checking account because you’re always checking and counting, trapped in the cycle, waiting for pay day — it saves your sanity more than the bills piling up.
You just got paid and for one day before auto draft takes it away you’ll imagine you’re the Director of Such Importance, educated, walking the streets in your favorite outfit, looking like a little million bucks — small bills only.
Come on, let’s be queens tonight! Gathered in droves, dressed to the nines — show those rich fucks we know how to eat fine food too; oysters and other slithers — butter up my buns, give me the best wine! You’ve got an image to uphold!
Ah, you had a great night! Good friends! Good times! Damn, isn’t that Ricky just a God damn riot?! — the hangover the next day reminds you you’re human and still poor — into the excess, the pattern of depression.
Fuck! You have to work tomorrow. Be a lazy fuck all Sunday and watch your shows on the home box office. Ignorant in bliss, eyes in the VR, reconnected, reconnecting, buffering, Instagram fetish — lost in your own feed.
Oh, the single life!
Just out here fucking for fun, waiting for number one. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.
You’ve learned exactly what to say, how to play, collecting 200, passing go. It’s easier than it seems when you’re numb to rejection. Panties twisting down her ankles, you’ll pull them off with your toes, show her all the tricks you know — she’s curled around your finger tips and you wonder how much more of this bullshit you can take.
You’re not the scumbag you want to be, but becoming one for free. The loneliness is clawing at your insides, you’re a rodent clawing at her ankles.
You finish fucking, remembering she’s just passing through — right through you. Fuck the pain, you remember her name — not the girl you just fucked, but the one that fucked you up.
Daydream, delirious, moist and loose, driveling for a little bit of nectar — a tiny bit of juice, a taste of stability — settling down will solve all your problems, you think the Wet American Dream comes with a house and kids, bibles and pins, daily routines, walking around never making a scene, placid background, boring sounds coming from your home.
When you finally get it, you realize you were wrong.
Stay single, stupid — there’s that voice again. There’s only one woman in the world, just many different faces. It’s all a mask, nothing changes.
What the fuck was her name again? You slip up your boxers, cuddled up to anonymous № 39 as she falls asleep — eyes wide open, you lay there hoping this will be the last stop, yet you know there will always be a quit step and a hop in the way you walk when the next beautiful girl comes around your block.
№ 40 next in line. Super swipe. This is it for you, man. Get used to it. You’ll always just be an uncle, never a dad.
You didn’t dream hard enough.
You ate the whole thing, appetizers too, crunchy roll with a side of melted brown sugar, the skin on your face is porous and raw — you’re ugly to us all. You live in unreality, failing to accept your problems, eat more, watch more, buy more. You’re a fumbling bumbling ball of wasted living.
You’ve centered yourself around the best deals, but it’s not a steal, you’re robbed of the same amount of money but now you just have more shit laying around. You ignore your disgusting self walking right passed the mirror as you hovel into the shower.
Uppers, downers, you only know drive-thrus and fast foods that satisfy the craving you never had, yet you find a way to jam it all in. God only knows what you are, a trash can filling to the brim with all the bullshit you don’t need.
What do you really dream at night? A dream of spaghetti, meatball tits, fat blue jean hips, enough money to order delivery but none to fix your teeth — you’re a rotting denegration. You’ve allowed your health to lapse, and one day sooner than later you’ll collapse — pray it’s not too late.
You’re never going to make it. You’re a pitch untalented and nobody wants your shit in their shop. Keep going, you’re not good enough. You’re a ball of depression and doubt, curled up next to a bowl of your favorite stuff. Quit making new stuff. Get a job, like your brother.
Nobody pities you, we all fuckin’ hate you, because you’re a greedy ghoul, snickering, slithering soul — obsessed with yourself, waiting for a pat on the back, compliment, nothing matters but your next brush stroke.
Give into the depression and put yourself down.
How heavy is the burden you leave those that love you. Underselling your shit because you can’t make money any other way. You might as well give it away for free —besides, all you really want is acceptance, sitting on the fence of ‘Never famous’ and ‘Fucking stupid’.
Eat the shit you dish out. Scream and then shout, America’s brilliant little sweethearts, pop-tarts toasting, filled with goo — to be anything different you must destroy everything new.
You’ll either be married and unhappy or hoping for a spouse, unsatisfied — finding flaws in the next girl you date, but you know it’s too late — you make excuses for her, a mess you create. You’ve bought her the best things, but you know what this brings: a weighted ticking clock locked around your ankle, dragged daily until your final dream, closing both eyes to the fantasy and lie you purchased with the currency of your doubt — because you figured you couldn’t dream more different than anyone else, you succumb to the one dripping wet — moist, loose, hanging, dangling panties soaked — American Dream.
Hey guess what? The Statue of Liberty’s clit tastes like pennies too, but I bet you already knew.