Another night of too much cough syrup. I am awakened by the incessant ringing of the telephone. I still have dreams caked in the corners of my eyes and my mouth is dry and tastes shitty.
Again—the ringing. Slowly, I bustle out of bed. The remnants of an erection still lingering in my shorts like a bothersome guest.
Again the ringing. Carefully I abscond to the bathroom so as to not display my manhood to others. There I make the perfunctory morning faces, which always seem to precede my daily contribution to the once-blue toilet water that I always enjoy making green.
Again the ringing. I shake twice like most others, as I am annoyed by the dribble that always seems to remain, causing a small acreage of wetness on the front of my briefs. I slowly, languidly, lazily, crazily stumble into the den where my father smokes his guitars—I mean cigars—In his easy chair. I know all about easy chairs. And then I sing a song for my friends:
"Jesus is my boyfriend Jesus is my boyfriend You can't have him Because Jesus is my boyfriend"
Ringing, ringing. Dang it goddamn motherfucking son-of-a-bitch is ringing. I walk into the kitchen and I stare blankly at that shrieking plastic bastard. Since it keeps ringing I know it's her, and since it keeps ringing she knows it's me.
We are the world, we are the children We are the ones who make a darker day So let's start killing There's a choice you're making We're sparing our own lives It's true we'll make a darker day Just you and me