Reformationist: You are not alone.
Separatist: That’s good, especially since I have you.
R: What, then, is the dilemma?
S: I have you with me. In the car, in the bathroom, on the steps, in my bed, in my clothes, on the tip of my tongue. In my head.
R: It
is that bad.
S: If you were absent, I’d at least have the option of isolation.
R: I could withdraw.
S: No, you couldn’t. You’d keep pushing your ugly face through the curtains, pretending to be a vacant bystander. The stench betrays you though.
R: So you are a bloodhound now.
S: And you’re always covered in blood, curiously enough.
R: I have been contemplating that conundrum at length. What if I were to concoct a manner in which to alleviate such inconvenience?
S: That’s preposterous, and yes, contrary to your condition, some things
are utterly ludicrous. You’ll fuck around for a while, build and burn a few bridges, break apart and away -whichever occurs first it matters not- and then come stalking your way back here.
R: I was not aware that you had digested the art of divination.
S: I wouldn’t exactly label it as divination, nor clairvoyance, but rather an inside tip. Trust me.
R: If you were to be proven incorrect?
S: What if I were? First I’d give my face a good scrubbing, the kind that removes prevalent, intrusive and debilitating stains. Then I’d treat my mother to a steak at the
Outback, preceded by a Bloomin’ Onion just for the sake... of... decadence.
R: That would make for a splendid dinner date, I imagine. The fifth shaft went all the way through my rib cage, by the way.
S: Awesome, and yeah, I can envision the fanciful rendezvous too, lackadaisically I suppose, but something tells me that while you’re off playing ‘Reformation’ my stunted relief will be another’s sorrow, if not destruction.
R: Perhaps. Yet such displacement would be merely that. Would that not suffice?
S: Well, it would be a momentary breath of fresh air, that much is true. Current transgression notwithstanding, however, I’m less than enamored with sadism.
R: But you enjoy it, if only minutely; a transient, incidental indulgence.
S: I’ll admit that I partake in the spasmodic, random act of inverse kindness, but that has no correlation to the travesty brewing within your mind.
R: From what an awkward position you speak of cruelty. If I were a man I would have expired long ago, victim to this maniacal endeavor of your design.
S: If you were a man, you never would have participated. If you had never been a man, we might not have found ourselves in this most
jubilant situation.
R: How despicably tangential of you, or to rephrase, how inadvertently empathetic of you.
S: Neither. How
emphatically truculent of me. Besides, I don’t think that was much of a revision.
R: Perhaps muddled conversational ability was an unforeseen aspect of this ‘reformation’ which you mentioned previously. You know, you have smoked that cigarette down to its filter.
S: It’s not so bad, really; fiberglass leaves a delectable aftertaste in my mouth, but thanks for thinking about me.
R: I worry not about your health, but of your accelerating instability and, furthermore, I would appreciate it if you would refrain from-
S: Yeah?
R: Stamping the butt out on my backside, as it leaves a mark. One of several, so it would seem.
S: My mistake. From the boastful demeanor you often display, blemishes shouldn’t concern you in the slightest bit, or has all that bravado been yet another shred of deceit?
R: It is not a matter of hubris, nor treachery. Beyond that, you simply must understand, pretense of durability notwithstanding, that scarring is, at times, unavoidable.
S: Would it have the potential to kill you? Ruin you?
R: Absurdity is infectious, although I am probably to blame for that eventuality. I simply wished to imply that, if I were to reinvent myself, scarring would tarnish an otherwise impeccable motif.
S: But you’re incapable of reinventing yourself, no matter what you proclaim to the contrary.
R: Not with you tattooing my body, as it were. Sabotage is a dire means by which to effect prophecy, indeed.
S: Passive acquiescence is a pathetic means by which to garner sympathy. Besides, you could have put a halt to this charade five shovels ago.
R: Veracity, she spoke. Dog with restraint, call it man. Man with restraint, wants to be dog. Something like that.
S: I just know that you used to eat dog food by the handful, which was, once upon a time, attractive in its own impish fashion.
R: Agreed.
S: Hey! What the fuck are you doing? You promised that you wouldn’t pull any of them out until I finished!
R: I vowed no such thing, and even if I had, you’d note that nothing is being pulled out,
per se. I am merely pulling the shaft
through my chest. Were you less industrious, less prone to hysterical outbursts, you would have no need to lobby complaints.
S: You’re bending the truth on so many levels.
R: Bending the
rules, my dear, and the difference is of the utmost clarity.
S: I presume this bending of the rules applies to the distinction between, say,
liberator and
killer, right?
R: Conundrum, she cried. I am, most decidedly, a
murderer, if that satiates your moaning heart. My blood had been so rapaciously pyretic, and your mother’s so balmy, that I was unable to contain myself, but yes, I am a
killer, although you’re also correct to assume that even such acts as these are a matter of bending rules. Thankfully, propriety is of no concern to-
S: Propriety, she broke.
R: Arwakkk. Grgh.
S: All this talk of bending the rules electrified me. I mean, fueled by inspiration, I just had to jab that last makeshift spear through your jaw. Not through all of it, though, as you have a pretty big mouth, and I was enjoying our extended conversation, but I just couldn’t resist.
R: Ylek.
S: And while I do appreciate your detached, diseased style of philosophizing, the fact remains that I hadn’t come here to entertain such grandiose nonsense. I can accept the reality of our situation, at least partially, I really can, and that, basically, you’re the Mr. Fuckface of my life and, potentially, of others’ as well. I’m not really sure just
how this came to be. To be honest, I don’t really care, either, but you know what? Sure you do. I came here to kick the shit out of you even if it’s pointless, because it
almost makes me feel better.
R: All that, said the thief.
S: Huh?
R: Not to dissuade you from further diatribe, and not to inhibit any inclination toward a misguided, infantile sense of obstruction, but had you actually conceived that thrusting the splintered shaft of a shovel through my muzzle would actually impede my ability to speak?
S: I’d hoped it would.
R: Hope, dreams, lechery, and all such nuances are comical delusions at best, especially on my part. Penchant for mortal affectation aside, the spoken word is scarcely bound by flesh. Observe, shall you, as I stand somewhat erect, as much I care to do so, and really
look at what you despise. To converse with you while my teeth shatter this flimsy helve and my body expels the remainder requires no manner of effort whatsoever.
S: That’s... intriguing, actually. I’m being serious. You’re betraying this supposedly godlike insouciance of yours, but it is, admittedly, a fascinating spectacle to behold. Informative, even.
R: Shall you elaborate?
S: I don’t think you’d understand, and don’t bother trying to impress upon me some boundless expanse in which your keen intellect hunts down the doe of adolescent omniscience with a potato gun, or some shit like that.
R: Actually, I concur with your assertion regarding my inability to apprehend the mangled innards of your cognition, and that has been the principal vexation, has it not? Or is misunderstanding the nefarious sum of incalculable atrocities the problem? Were our good intentions led astray so easily?
S: You’re retarded.
R: I suffer from expressive aphasia, which is a serious disability. Thanks for being so insensitive.
S: You’re also predictable.
R: Correct. Unlike me, you truly
understand the monstrous
other.
S: That’s only because your mind is like a block of goddamned Swiss cheese!
R: I would have likened it to a sieve, but your condemnation is nonetheless justifiable. A curious dilemma, this vermicious calamity; one far more disconcerting than any maniacal aspiration readily attributed to that which you currently identify as me.
S:
Identify as you? A penny can be shined a thousand times but- no, I take that back.
R: You? Take something back?
S: I’m not one to
give anything back. Try harder.
R: Bending the truth, she once denounced.
S: Yeah, yeah. I meant that you’re like a Cheeto. They could make a thousand different flavors, in as many shapes and sizes, which I’m sure they do, but in the end, no matter how twisted and tangled it becomes, in whichever asinine flavor devised, it’s still a fucking Cheeto.
R: A snack reference is the best simile a literature major could weave? Paint me disappointed.
S: That was you. I majored in General Studies.
R: Is that so?
S: Don’t be coy. You wrote that paper on Winterson for me because I was too lazy to read
Sexing the Cherry.
R: Lethargy, she proposed.
S: Okay, too
drunk, but that’s not the point. Don’t try to bullshit me.
R: I was doing no such thing.
S: Yes, you were, and it was a sad attempt at that.
R: Sooner than later, this contention of yours shall become entirely academic, if not trivial.
S: How so?
R: Eventually, that is what everyone will remember, regardless of what you or I state to the contrary. As you proposed, I am like a brick of Swiss cheese, or was it a slice?
S: It was a block, and somehow, I’m guessing that this flagrant display will segue into a soliloquy regarding your unending, impending, magically pernicious rejuvenation.
R: Perhaps, perhaps, but alas, alas; all this fallacious indignation fails to engender a correct summation of our rendezvous. Transfiguration is, in all likelihood, inevitable, protestation notwithstanding, and you simply must ascertain that it would be injudicious to continue with such folly, without the least bit of introspection to intervene.
S: What is that even supposed to mean?
R: I am under no compulsion to entertain your query, shifting serpent, but I do suggest that you concern yourself less with the travails of godhood, and more about those of one increasingly erratic woman.
S: Oh, please. Don’t go turning this around on me.
R: Forgive me, twice, but what, pray tell, is
that?
S: What? What are you talking about?
R: When did you start wearing colored contact lenses?
S: I never have.
R: Precisely.
(Yeah, I know.)
