2 Introducing Mother and Magdalene

Malcolm, oh, I whispered to myself at night when I was young. Thirteen, fourteen.
Fucking hell, as I tried to ram myself between the bendy legs of my sister's barbie doll. Who knew they could break so easily.
My little sister never saw her dentist barbie again. Dr. Barbie kept talking to the dirt, telling the dead to brush and then floss, right there where the evidence of my guilty self-abuse was buried.

I remember when my mother died. She was asleep on the sofa, and no one found her until two weeks after her death. I didn't speak to my mother, she was an old whore with a fouler mouth than the scene we walked into when she died.

By the time we got there the house smelled like burnt biscuits and ammonia. It smelled like cat litter and dust. It looked like death. In my head I could hear my mother when my father left.
Ring-a-ring of roses,
A pocket full of posies,
A-tishoo, a-tishoo!
We all fall down.
And we did. 

My mother never liked Magdalene.

"Malcolm" she said to me. It was hot inside her and hot inside. I began to see yellow dots out of the corners of my eyes. I tried to fixate on one but they always ran away, like a dream you forget to remember.
She had glitter on her eyelids, which to me made her look ugly. I told her once and she cried. When Magdalene cries she flattens her chin on to her throat and turns pink. To me she looked repulsive and obese, and I told her so. She never cried around me anymore.

"Come with me," she took my bony, freckled hand, and led me out. We ate old mushrooms out of old brown bags in the old part of town, and shot cranberries at cats.

1 A Conventional Introduction

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.