Worshipful Masturbator
Ett
I didn't call Rig until ten minutes before the plane boarded. I didn’t think he would mind so much.
He didn’t mind. He never worries too much about things like this, and neither do I. The plane ride was long and it made me feel sick. I could not sleep the whole 12 hour plane ride. When it landed, I vomited in the airport bathroom.
I was in Atlanta, and had to take a bus to Dallas, Texas. I had only been to New York City before. The ride exposed me to things I'd never even imagined before. As the bus rolled further and further southwest, I could feel myself increasingly contrasting to my surroundings. I was blue, and I was from a place where a blue light shone down on all of us all the time. But out there, everything was red like the color of brick. Not anything in particular, but everything. It felt red. I liked it, but it was strange. It was like a dream that I couldn’t relate to my reality at all.
A man tried to talk to me on the bus. He was short and had very reddish skin, with greasy gray hair and facial hair. He looked very poor and dirty. Nothing he said was interesting, however. He simply babbled on about his own impressions of what he thought my country would be like, and more specifically, what he thought the women would be like and what he'd like to do to them. I felt repulsed, but said nothing because I had never met a crackhead in the flesh before, and didn't know how he would react. I simply attempted to deter him from communicating with me by burying myself further in my book, The World as Will and Representation, which made little sense to me either. This man finally got off the bus after four hours, in Alabama or something.
I did not eat the entire bus ride. American food did not appeal to me much because I had never really tried it and it seemed to be abrasive to one's digestive tracts, as evidenced by the excessive belching of one fellow passenger.
Most of the ride, I looked out of the window and daydreamed. I think that I'm the only adult who never stopped doing so as much as they did as a child. I could imagine so much more than there really was, and I would superimpose my own will on top of anyone else's, or on top of reality. There was so much more to every sensory sensation than what appeared on face value. There were not just decrepit old houses along the sides of the roads, there were witches inside. There were not just strange trees in the distance, there were black bodies hanging from them. There were little Indian girls in the river, washing their hair. I could feel it, I could see it, and I didn’t know why.
There was a large cockroach in the bathroom as we drove through Louisiana.
Eventually the bus arrived in Dallas and Rig was there to pick me up.
"Abbe," he said, hugging me gently and taking my suitcase from me.
He was still shorter than I, and he'd grown a soft beard. His skin was much darker than it had been in Sweden, and his hair seemed more golden than white now. It made me uncomfortable somehow, but I sort of liked it.
"How was your trip?"
"Oh, it was fine," I told him.
By then I was nearly delirious. I was used to not getting much sleep, but not that little.
"I just would like to go to sleep."
He laughed a bit. We walked to his car and we listened to music on the way to his house. It was a very long drive, perhaps 3 hours, but still I could not sleep. Finally he asked me the normal question in this scenario.
"Do you know why they sent you to me?"
It still made me upset to hear the words.
"They say that I do nothing, and that I cause too many problems."
"Oh."
He already knew what the problems were as he'd lived with me my whole life until 3 years ago.
Once we arrived at his house, which was not quite in the country but not in a city either, he brought out the liquor. I downed several shots of vodka and many more bottles of beer. It was not a question whether or not we'd drink. It's what people from our country did. It felt good, and it would help me sleep. Still, I had no appetite, but luckily fell asleep.
--
For the next week I did nothing much besides sleep late and wake up early. I hardly left the room Rig gave to me. It was a nice place. Not nice in the way that our parents' home was, but nice in that I felt as if it was my personal space. I attempted to call a couple of my friends but none of them answered. It didn't matter.
I had many dreams during this week. One of which involved my transformation into a wolf. I liked the idea, but I think it was nothing more than a subconscious interpretation of the sound of coyotes howling outside.
On the Friday following the Thursday that I arrived, Rig took me into the nearest city to his friend's party. Parties in the US are very different than where I'm from. People are much stranger and more complicated, and it's much harder to talk to people in America. So mostly, I sat outside smoking someone's cigarettes that I'd stolen from a coffee table inside.
Eventually, this girl Selene came outside and discovered that I'd stolen her cigarettes, and she kicked me in my back and wanted to kill me until her boyfriend came and got her. After that, I just didn’t care. Texans were insane. They did not frighten me, but rather made me feel the most severe form of indifference I'd ever experienced. It was not repugnance, but ambivalence.
I wandered away from the house, which was in the country, and into the woods to find somewhere to kill myself. I thought it was a good time. I was away from my parents, and there in the woods no one would find me for a long time.
It wasn’t until I reached the trees that I realized I had no way to kill myself in that moment, so I decided to climb a tree instead. I thought maybe I'd fall and die that way and it would look like an accident, which would be even better for Rig.
But I did not fall, and instead sat on a branch and thought things. I thought of how no girl had ever loved me or wanted me, and I did not care. I thought of how I was unattractive and had poor hygiene, and I did not care. I thought of how I had no motivation and had not achieved anything in life, and I did not care. I thought of all the cruel things that people had said, and I did not care. I thought of how my friends didn't give a shit, and I did not care. I thought about how I was a disappointment to my parents, and about how they didn’t love me, and I did not care. However, I did not know what there was to care about, and that made me suicidal.
I climbed down from the tree after thinking these things and returned to Rig. He was not ready to leave until another hour had passed. Within that hour I managed to drink six more beers. No one even attempted to talk to me.
We went home, I crawled into the bed and I laid there sweating, wanting so badly to take my frustration out on my body but resisting it as defiantly as I could. My heart and temples were pounding, my fists and teeth clenched tight. I wanted to feel pain, but I could not be bothered. The alcohol simply made even more of the thoughts spill out and repeat. But it also made me lazy, and I could not move to find some instrument for self destruction.
He didn’t mind. He never worries too much about things like this, and neither do I. The plane ride was long and it made me feel sick. I could not sleep the whole 12 hour plane ride. When it landed, I vomited in the airport bathroom.
I was in Atlanta, and had to take a bus to Dallas, Texas. I had only been to New York City before. The ride exposed me to things I'd never even imagined before. As the bus rolled further and further southwest, I could feel myself increasingly contrasting to my surroundings. I was blue, and I was from a place where a blue light shone down on all of us all the time. But out there, everything was red like the color of brick. Not anything in particular, but everything. It felt red. I liked it, but it was strange. It was like a dream that I couldn’t relate to my reality at all.
A man tried to talk to me on the bus. He was short and had very reddish skin, with greasy gray hair and facial hair. He looked very poor and dirty. Nothing he said was interesting, however. He simply babbled on about his own impressions of what he thought my country would be like, and more specifically, what he thought the women would be like and what he'd like to do to them. I felt repulsed, but said nothing because I had never met a crackhead in the flesh before, and didn't know how he would react. I simply attempted to deter him from communicating with me by burying myself further in my book, The World as Will and Representation, which made little sense to me either. This man finally got off the bus after four hours, in Alabama or something.
I did not eat the entire bus ride. American food did not appeal to me much because I had never really tried it and it seemed to be abrasive to one's digestive tracts, as evidenced by the excessive belching of one fellow passenger.
Most of the ride, I looked out of the window and daydreamed. I think that I'm the only adult who never stopped doing so as much as they did as a child. I could imagine so much more than there really was, and I would superimpose my own will on top of anyone else's, or on top of reality. There was so much more to every sensory sensation than what appeared on face value. There were not just decrepit old houses along the sides of the roads, there were witches inside. There were not just strange trees in the distance, there were black bodies hanging from them. There were little Indian girls in the river, washing their hair. I could feel it, I could see it, and I didn’t know why.
There was a large cockroach in the bathroom as we drove through Louisiana.
Eventually the bus arrived in Dallas and Rig was there to pick me up.
"Abbe," he said, hugging me gently and taking my suitcase from me.
He was still shorter than I, and he'd grown a soft beard. His skin was much darker than it had been in Sweden, and his hair seemed more golden than white now. It made me uncomfortable somehow, but I sort of liked it.
"How was your trip?"
"Oh, it was fine," I told him.
By then I was nearly delirious. I was used to not getting much sleep, but not that little.
"I just would like to go to sleep."
He laughed a bit. We walked to his car and we listened to music on the way to his house. It was a very long drive, perhaps 3 hours, but still I could not sleep. Finally he asked me the normal question in this scenario.
"Do you know why they sent you to me?"
It still made me upset to hear the words.
"They say that I do nothing, and that I cause too many problems."
"Oh."
He already knew what the problems were as he'd lived with me my whole life until 3 years ago.
Once we arrived at his house, which was not quite in the country but not in a city either, he brought out the liquor. I downed several shots of vodka and many more bottles of beer. It was not a question whether or not we'd drink. It's what people from our country did. It felt good, and it would help me sleep. Still, I had no appetite, but luckily fell asleep.
--
For the next week I did nothing much besides sleep late and wake up early. I hardly left the room Rig gave to me. It was a nice place. Not nice in the way that our parents' home was, but nice in that I felt as if it was my personal space. I attempted to call a couple of my friends but none of them answered. It didn't matter.
I had many dreams during this week. One of which involved my transformation into a wolf. I liked the idea, but I think it was nothing more than a subconscious interpretation of the sound of coyotes howling outside.
On the Friday following the Thursday that I arrived, Rig took me into the nearest city to his friend's party. Parties in the US are very different than where I'm from. People are much stranger and more complicated, and it's much harder to talk to people in America. So mostly, I sat outside smoking someone's cigarettes that I'd stolen from a coffee table inside.
Eventually, this girl Selene came outside and discovered that I'd stolen her cigarettes, and she kicked me in my back and wanted to kill me until her boyfriend came and got her. After that, I just didn’t care. Texans were insane. They did not frighten me, but rather made me feel the most severe form of indifference I'd ever experienced. It was not repugnance, but ambivalence.
I wandered away from the house, which was in the country, and into the woods to find somewhere to kill myself. I thought it was a good time. I was away from my parents, and there in the woods no one would find me for a long time.
It wasn’t until I reached the trees that I realized I had no way to kill myself in that moment, so I decided to climb a tree instead. I thought maybe I'd fall and die that way and it would look like an accident, which would be even better for Rig.
But I did not fall, and instead sat on a branch and thought things. I thought of how no girl had ever loved me or wanted me, and I did not care. I thought of how I was unattractive and had poor hygiene, and I did not care. I thought of how I had no motivation and had not achieved anything in life, and I did not care. I thought of all the cruel things that people had said, and I did not care. I thought of how my friends didn't give a shit, and I did not care. I thought about how I was a disappointment to my parents, and about how they didn’t love me, and I did not care. However, I did not know what there was to care about, and that made me suicidal.
I climbed down from the tree after thinking these things and returned to Rig. He was not ready to leave until another hour had passed. Within that hour I managed to drink six more beers. No one even attempted to talk to me.
We went home, I crawled into the bed and I laid there sweating, wanting so badly to take my frustration out on my body but resisting it as defiantly as I could. My heart and temples were pounding, my fists and teeth clenched tight. I wanted to feel pain, but I could not be bothered. The alcohol simply made even more of the thoughts spill out and repeat. But it also made me lazy, and I could not move to find some instrument for self destruction.