Battery acid
In my autobiography, I have an eating disorder.
Not something pedestrian like anorexia or bullimia. A disorder where you actually eat something weird, like glass, or sour, like batteries. And not just those batteries that you put into your torchlight. But real batteries, like those you find in your car. "Oh it's not eczema. I just washed down my breakfast with a glass of battery acid."
I'd like people to remember me as having a tough childhood. Cos you can't keep it real if you grew up rich. You'd be keeping it imaginary with your Sony virtual reality goggles. That's as real as Equal or Splenda. Real folk, like me, literally spat on our shoes to shine them. They never shone, of course. Not just because I only ever had canvas shoes. But also because I only spat out battery acid.
I was so poor growing up that I never got to see a doctor or had colour textbooks (see "Fever" and "The cat II"). In fact, I was so poor that even poor people took pity on me and gave me things. Like Justin from the dumpster on Avenue 2, who - on hearing about my book situation - gave me a corner of broken red brick that he'd found. He might otherwise have kept it for himself to use as a pillow, but I suppose he wanted me to liven up my textbooks with caveman-like etchings of brick red dust. My school teachers were in the habit of reserving red ink to indicate failing grades only. And when Justin saw my exam papers drenched in red, he thought that I was running low on red brick and offered to find me a bigger piece next time.
I found my break after I turned seventeen when I was arrested mistakenly in a drug bust. Yes, I was on acid. But it was battery acid. The false arrest made the local news, and a dog trainer posing as an elephant trainer spotted me and offered me a job in his travelling freakshow. For the next three years, I chomped on batteries nightly, between the girl with six fingers and the priest who kept his hands to himself. It was a blast just watching her wiggle that extra nub at him suggestively while he resisted the urge to clobber it off with one of my batteries. Eventually, the Cirque du Soleil hired me to put on a battery-juggling act just before the Chinese plate-spinners. This break helped me earn a comfortable sum for about sixteen years until I got sloppy one day and spilled some battery acid on the stage. The Chinese plates literally came down, but not crashing. It might have been just another unfortunate accident if the plates had actually broken. But they didn't, and the audience discovered that the Cirque had been fooling them all along with plastic plates. So the crowds boycotted the Cirque for the rest of its season. Of course, I got fired. But not before I took a box of plastic plates with me. You never know when plates might come in handy.
As it turned out, I ran into Justin the red brick dumpster guy soon after. He was looking well. He'd found two mismatched shirt sleeves - one long and one short - and he was a front and back away from having a whole shirt. I thought I should give him one of my plastic plates, just in case he'd find food one day. To thank him for that piece of red brick from so many years ago. Besides, it's always nice to eat off a plate. Each time I saw Justin after that, I'd ask him if he'd found any use for the plate yet. He said no, but hey I'd be the first to know if he came into any food. As the weeks turned into months, the clean plate that I'd given to Justin started to turn grey from neglect. It wasn't as though Justin was slapping people with dirty faces around with his plate. I think the plate just felt sad, and hungry, from not being able to serve food on itself. Justin looked embarrassed about the dirty plate. I didn't want him to feel too bad about it either. I'm sure he was hungry enough.
"Here, just wash it with some battery acid."
Not something pedestrian like anorexia or bullimia. A disorder where you actually eat something weird, like glass, or sour, like batteries. And not just those batteries that you put into your torchlight. But real batteries, like those you find in your car. "Oh it's not eczema. I just washed down my breakfast with a glass of battery acid."
I'd like people to remember me as having a tough childhood. Cos you can't keep it real if you grew up rich. You'd be keeping it imaginary with your Sony virtual reality goggles. That's as real as Equal or Splenda. Real folk, like me, literally spat on our shoes to shine them. They never shone, of course. Not just because I only ever had canvas shoes. But also because I only spat out battery acid.
I was so poor growing up that I never got to see a doctor or had colour textbooks (see "Fever" and "The cat II"). In fact, I was so poor that even poor people took pity on me and gave me things. Like Justin from the dumpster on Avenue 2, who - on hearing about my book situation - gave me a corner of broken red brick that he'd found. He might otherwise have kept it for himself to use as a pillow, but I suppose he wanted me to liven up my textbooks with caveman-like etchings of brick red dust. My school teachers were in the habit of reserving red ink to indicate failing grades only. And when Justin saw my exam papers drenched in red, he thought that I was running low on red brick and offered to find me a bigger piece next time.
I found my break after I turned seventeen when I was arrested mistakenly in a drug bust. Yes, I was on acid. But it was battery acid. The false arrest made the local news, and a dog trainer posing as an elephant trainer spotted me and offered me a job in his travelling freakshow. For the next three years, I chomped on batteries nightly, between the girl with six fingers and the priest who kept his hands to himself. It was a blast just watching her wiggle that extra nub at him suggestively while he resisted the urge to clobber it off with one of my batteries. Eventually, the Cirque du Soleil hired me to put on a battery-juggling act just before the Chinese plate-spinners. This break helped me earn a comfortable sum for about sixteen years until I got sloppy one day and spilled some battery acid on the stage. The Chinese plates literally came down, but not crashing. It might have been just another unfortunate accident if the plates had actually broken. But they didn't, and the audience discovered that the Cirque had been fooling them all along with plastic plates. So the crowds boycotted the Cirque for the rest of its season. Of course, I got fired. But not before I took a box of plastic plates with me. You never know when plates might come in handy.
As it turned out, I ran into Justin the red brick dumpster guy soon after. He was looking well. He'd found two mismatched shirt sleeves - one long and one short - and he was a front and back away from having a whole shirt. I thought I should give him one of my plastic plates, just in case he'd find food one day. To thank him for that piece of red brick from so many years ago. Besides, it's always nice to eat off a plate. Each time I saw Justin after that, I'd ask him if he'd found any use for the plate yet. He said no, but hey I'd be the first to know if he came into any food. As the weeks turned into months, the clean plate that I'd given to Justin started to turn grey from neglect. It wasn't as though Justin was slapping people with dirty faces around with his plate. I think the plate just felt sad, and hungry, from not being able to serve food on itself. Justin looked embarrassed about the dirty plate. I didn't want him to feel too bad about it either. I'm sure he was hungry enough.
"Here, just wash it with some battery acid."