Copyright © 2019 Tanner Babcock.
The one thing you have to keep in mind: The only one sure fire way to be rosary elegant is to dance. When you get a nasty thought like this one: "Oh, black people steal." Just dance it off. Dance the bad thoughts away.
"Don't think about it," they said, "It will go away." The first time I distanced myself from myself was when I was 6 years old and my daddy locked me in a dark closet with a dog of bag food for 2 days. At that point I was Narrator, Jonathan, and Jorge. 3 for the price of 2 strikes you're out. My cranky ol diddy pa let me out after the second day on good behavior. I had pissed myself twice, so he beat me two and a half times for each urination: five times total. Jonathan and Jorge scolded me just the same, stupid cucks. By the time I was 10, I was eight people. Billy, Bobby, Scooter, Achilles, John F. Kennedy, Holland 1945, Jonathan, and Jorgette, who recently came out as transgender and insists on she/her pronouns. You want to know a secret about true detachment, my one and only friend? You don't choose it, it chooses you. I didn't choose the thug life, the thug life chose me. It happened the first time when I was 28 or so, I woke up in increasingly dangerous places throughout the week, without having any idea of how I got there. I finally pieced it together that I was taking tolerant-resistant sleeping pills, and was exposed to asbestos, and was therefore blacking out and robbing people at knife point. I finally came to learn this when the County Hogs arrested me for bribery: armed bribery. Who knew the judge didn't like menthols? You don't choose the dissociative life, the dissociative life chooses you. Scooter was always screaming at me, "Narrator! Wake up! You're hurting people!" but it didn't make any sense. Anyway, I finally hit reality when I was thrown in jail for armed robbery. My daddy done bailed me out, at the ripe old age of 105. But then it was back to closet and the bag food for your ol' pal Jorgette. He was pretty - sorry, she - was pretty pissed off at that, the old bitch. Screaming and hollering about transphobia and heteroelectricity. Sorry, it's not sexist because I still think of her as a man. Stupid cunt. But it was your humble narrator (and ever-decaying conscience) that had to endure, the pains of the mice that were loose in the depths of the closet, nibbling on my genitals. Scooter and that piece of shit Jonathan were freeloaders. This time, the closet punishment had an unusual twist. I would routinely black out, without provocation, for days at a time. This would always alarm whoever was closest to me, or anyone I lived with, but most of the time I would wake up alone. This happened in the closet. It must have been four or five days, because my dad figured now I won't starve to death, since it's 2017 and I can order a pizza on my Sam Sung Berry. So he lets me out a little later than he always did. It was almost traumatizing how long I was in there, until I fell asleep. But my dumb ol daddy thought I was dead when he opened the door and I was unconscious with mouse shit in my hair.
I woke up to a doctor pricking my arm with adrenaline and my dad shaking his head at me in disappointment, like he always does, in some hospital room. It's his own fault he felt shitty. Who tortures and abuses their own child like that?