Being good at multiple things is a waste of time. No one cares if you can kill a man just by blowing kisses at him, but you can also jump over a lot of boxes. It just doesn’t matter.

So, now: you’re making a movie. You’ve never been this wet before. People are calling you Ham Pants. Everything is perfect. You pomaded your hair straight back this morning. You used the nice pomade.

You think about the movie you’re going to make.

I am going to put the many scenes of excellent killings into my movie, you think to yourself. Your brain smells of hot cabbage. You are impossibly moist. The pomade holds.

But wait, your brain, which is magnificent, continues, what if the scenes of murder, which I am responsible for and love like a stern yet spankable father, are hard to see – I mean literally, physically hard to discern on even a basic geometric level.

You chat with the boys about this. You have to. Only the boys will get it.

”Don’t be stupid,” Blaine says. He is the smartest of the boys. “No one would be weird enough to have a scene wherein someone is melting in acid and then just forget that that character is melting in acid and instead have them die of something else even though they are clearly melting in acid. Acid is the thing that is currently killing them. Nothing else would make sense for the murder.”

Blaine gets it, man. Blaine fucking gets it.

The End

Darkness surrounds me. Everything smells like burning. Sometimes I wake up and I can’t remember if I know how to read or not. I don’t mean that I forgot how to read, I mean I have to read something to remind myself that I can still read, because I can’t remember if I can read or not. When people talk to me I hear only a monstrous chitter. I can’t believe I need to sign up for Apple TV just to watch Formula One. I want to watch cars driving really fast. I don’t want anything else.

I will pay someone hundreds of dollars to spit on me. Make me beg you to stop spitting on me, and then spit on me more. Tell me to close my eyes and after I’ve closed my eyes tell me to say that it’s not spit, it’s rain, and I like the rain, thank you for the rain. If I cry and say I don’t want to play anymore, hit me. Make me legally change my name to Fart Salad. Tell me the wetter stuff is the better stuff. Bathe me in your awful water.