GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #267: VALENTINE'S DAY IN PRISON

To be read to the tune of this.


It is Valentine's Day, and like many holidays, Hallmark has completely ignored a group of people. It's funny because they try to be all inclusive. But in one aspect, they have failed.


2.3 million Americans are in prison. As much as most people would think, they are evil and obviously have no loved ones, yes?


No. I'd venture to guess that most of us not incarcerated know someone in prison. I certainly do. It's really hard to find Valentine's cards to send to loved ones behind bars. A lot of prisons don't allow anything aside from postcard correspondence. But some are more forgiving.


But you can't send anything with glitter. Nothing with metal in it, like those pop up cards. Nothing with recordings, like almost every fucking Valentine at the store. It takes a lot of effort to find a Valentine that you can send to loved ones incarcerated. I found the most generic card ever for my longtime friend. But it took a long time.


Hallmark needs to make cards that are prison friendly. I think there is a giant market for this kind of thing. Fucking hell, guys. Step up. You are failing 2.3M Americans. Do you know how much money you can make from them?!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #266: BLEED

I have to be honest. I haven't been getting a lot of writing done. Most of it was due to my nervous breakdown last year, but a lot of it is also caused by the new book I'm writing.


I am a lot like Bentley Little when writing a book. My first draft is usually pretty close to the final draft. Not the same, but close.


This new book is something completely different. It's such a personal story that I can't be anything less than exact. I can't think, I'll fix it in an edit. But it's fucking me up severely. This is the kind of thing that if I get it published, it will probably have my entire family turn against me. I mean that in a Dean Koontz kind of way. Meaning, it involves familial insanity, which is something no one wants to talk about. I feel guilty just for trying to write this thing.


I'm sure you're familiar with the concept of an author cutting him/herself open and bleeding on the page. It's never been a style for me, because I'm a control freak, but this is the only thing I can think of to get this story out of me. It's full of things I don't want to admit about my family or even about me. But I have to get it out. I considered working on something else, but my mind doesn't want to let me. This thing is pressing on my brain, and it won't let up until I get it out of me.


I'm thinking of taking a Mark Twain tactic to this thing. Don't publish it until I've been dead a hundred years. But then again, by then no one will remember me. I have to do it now.


Bleed on the page. I'm trying, but I can't release myself from my ego to get this done.


FUCK.

TOILET PAPER HORROR

A nice, filthy whiskey shit.

Such a relief to get it out.

Probably a 3-wiper, clean as a whistle.

Bunch up toilet paper.

Wipe—

Oh no.

Fuck.

My finger pushed through

and swiped my asshole

shit juice still on it.

Wipe it clean.

Scrub and scrape

Scrape and scrub

Sniff it.

You can hardly smell it.

But you know that after 30 minutes

The shit stink will be back.

Even if you put cologne on it.

MORNING WOOD

My morning wood always wakes up before me.

A warm rod on my underbelly.

Sometimes nuzzled in my belly button.

Or maybe it’s pointed to my hip

            (always the right hip, it feels weird on the left)

            if I’m on my stomach.

Sometimes it peeks out of my boxers.

It makes my morning piss a pain in the ass

            (so to speak)

But I have learned that if I . . .

            . . . lean my head against the wall

            . . . grip the underside of my penis with my fingers on the bottom

            . . . and gently pull back

A slightly burning stream of urine

hits exactly the target.

I’m happy if I can cover the surface of the toilet water with bubbles

And when I flush, it bunches up and lifts in the center.

Sometimes my morning wood lasts a long time.

I have to wear my shirt over it to hide it.

It’s annoying, but I love my morning wood.

It’s proof that I am alive.