Around the corner there are two thugs with baggy pants and unconcealed weapons. This street is my home. I hide behind this wall for hours, listening to their lingo, their deluded plans for greatness. This is my academic pursuit.
For the last week i've seen this kid, this seemingly nice kid. In my experience the nice kids eventually do something stupid to get themselves killed.
After a few hours of listening in, I head back to my house. I live with my mom in comfortable suburbia, where the lawns are world class and the coke habits run rampant. In my room I take my mom's blow dryer and shoot the ceiling several times. “Did you just look at me! What now naughty tile?!” Of course I expect no reply to my vicious rhetorical questioning, but I can't help but feel as if these whispered words deserve the inanimate's whimpering in reply. Well, I'm sure you can see, I'm a bit of a hot-shot. Yep! I'm a quiet hot-shot, and yes, this is my life as a quiet villain. A decapitator of shampoo bottles, a stuffed animal's dealer. The hoodlums on the block may terrorize the real, but my reign is more expansive. I dominate the inanimate, take man's products as my bitch. I stand on a mountain outside of mountains, and prove, just like a scientist, that the world is my domain. This is my life. There non-lives are mine! All is subsidiary to my life.
Bow down, juice container! Kneel, stack of books! That's right, I thought you would. My actions need no action. Just as the terrorist terrorizes with the threat of his existence more so than his bomb's existence, my words claim my right. Yes, my words place me on my thrown and allow me to accept my crown. Because my words can do this, I assure you I could be the only one qualified for my position as thug, terrorist, king, God. Bend. Please do bend, objects of the world.
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