Once I got stuck in a boiler. It was cold and black, and I thought it would light on fire and I would burn. I would be stuck, exactly like Johnny Cash and yet not at all, in a Ring of Fire. My skin would stick, charred, to the sides of the boiler as my body inflated like a woman eight months pregnant.
I sat in the boiler for four hours until my mother came to pull me out. I had been licking the tears falling down the curved cold sides. They tasted like petrified sweat and rust.
I drive a taxi now. I'm not very good at my job, I only stand by the car, pissing in the snow and smoking. I've been smoking since I was sixteen, only Marlboro. They're American. When I cough I can hear the devil himself scratching my lungs.
When I do get a fare, I speed up the meter so they have to pay extra. I keep the money, and I buy Simpson's figurines.
When I get angry, I throw one of my figurines into the micro wave, and I slam it shut. I turn it up to ten minutes and watch as Moe's head melts down into his chest. Afterwards I fall down on the floor, covered in paper clips and old memos, and cry. It's the ever penetrating feeling of guilt, of knowing I enjoy destruction. And yet, it makes me sad.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the road, sobbing, holding little plastic baby Maggie in my arms.
Someone once said that those who can't do, teach.
I can't do.
I can't teach.
I am fucking God.