She believed very little that others told her. She disliked being lied to and misled. And she loathed waiting. And she especially abhorred waiting in an auto mechanic's shop while her car was being repaired. It was probably even less than very little that she believed when others were doing their best and acting their most passionate and being their most adamant to convince her of something. She had spent a great deal more than most of her life weeping over much more than spilt milk. She regretted the reality that her body replenished itself. A significant amount more than the majority of her thoughts were devoted to cogitating on the idea of her body's resilience being overturned and overruled so that the emptying process could be allowed to continue to its final concluding scene of the closing of her eyes into a tremendous prolongation far beyond just an extended snooze. Snooze snooze and hit the snooze again on the alarm that shook her out of other places she would rather be or worse than the paths she had been misguided onto by friends, family, coworkers, bosses, lovers, strangers, friends, phony friends, phony and cowardly acquaintances trying to be more and less than they really were whatever that could possibly be. Who knew? No one knew or they pretended and feigned to know or have explanations those bloody explanations that turned words into conduits for biological waste. Biological material and goings on that wasted away like she wished she could and she could not. Her body kept bloody replenishing its bloody self with bloody cleansing that made an awful bloody mess. Man, what do you want now? From her from her body that flattened and fattened that opened and closed and stretched and tightened that softened and hardened and touched and recoiled from you, man. Man. What do you want now from her? Stop looking and talking. Lies and misleading directions and cowardly nonsensical explanations shooting out of that grease covered body of your hands. Don't touch and stand back and come here and tell her now what. What's that now you say, man? It'll be a while longer won't be done until tomorrow or the next day? Because the part is hard to get to? Bet it's hard. It's always hard as you think of nothing else but getting your eyes and your hands on things that bring the cleverest and the best out in you clever trousers man smearing your face with dirt and darkening layers to make your eyes stand out and shine with bright suggestions of suggestive positions to attempt to connect things that have ruptured and leaked their fluids. You complain about what you like and you are obsessed with what you complain about. Liking and complaining make you into one unclear murky confused and foggy lubricant for the machine that grinds her and him and him and him and her to grind out little packages soft at first before they are hardened by your hardening and liking and complaining. They look like you when they throw their tantrums. You, man, look like them when you throw things. When you throw off her like an inflatable raft to convey you on your shining pool glistening with your alcoholic getaways. Getaway and get out from under this body that you think you have much more and much less than a clue about and disappear back into the hole you came from that makes excuses for you and apologies and tells you about being chosen or not chosen or responsible for whatever you put what they call a mind to to to never mind you're not listening anyway you can to get around it get around her get in her drive right through her with your explanations that always have a reason a meaning a beginning a source a creative source responsible for excluding and misleading and possessing those who have not been chosen or born like her with a vagina with breasts with an overwhelming exceeding of the limits of patience for the rape of woman and of words you commit on a moment by moment basis with your body work with your tools with your tool. Going to leave now. Magazines filled with the latest and the out of date images and models for this theater this dumbshow getting too old for dress up getting too depressed for waking up getting too fed up with being fed in and out and out and in and in to get yourself out from under the body her body get out from under her body stop the leaking of fluids that she wants to leak out and abandon her to the scrap heap when she can finally be neglected and no longer nagged when she is expecting if she is expecting and only expect the end that slows and grinds to much less than a crawl to suggest suggestive positions in an apotheosis she would close her eyes to and reject with every gradually dead cell that would fall from her body stick to her body it would stick as she would reject with every broken down fiber of her being as long as it would be rejected she had been distracted by explanations that couldn't hold her car together her job together her relationships together her hopes together her dreams together her life together. She leaves again to walk on and on to walk on to the trash heap where she would join the other objects that couldn't hold together.
- Max Stoltenberg