by Thom Gabrukiewicz
When I see someone in a neck brace, I want to scream HEY YOU so they turn their head and I get to see the pain in their eyes. When I was little, I set fire to the neighbor's shitzu and now I'm so ashamed that I can't look dogs in the eye at all. When I talk to my mom, I'm OK, but if I text her, I get a raging hard-on; that's not one of those Oedipus things, do you think? "If you don't stop, I'm calling a cop you freak," the woman on the bus-stop bench hisses. I get up and walk away satisfied, alive, bouncy; I usually can get people to listen to my shit for a good five minutes before I finally invade their comfortable sensibilities - and leave swiftly before entanglements with the authorities can arise. And it beats the $250 an hour my therapist charges uptown.
Thom Gabrukiewicz, whose full catalog is here, is a working journalist on the Left Coast who wishes someone would notice his other musings and offer him a big, fat book advance. He blogs here.