Move-in day

My new apartment is dank. It is sordid. Morbid. Disgusting. The walls are white and dirty. It smells like paint. Sick.

Today was supposed to be our get together day. Our move in day. Our finish up day. Our get the fuck organized day.

I arrive at eleven o’clock in the evening and I am pissed. It’s still dirty, paint on the floors, dirt on the walls, roaches crawling everywhere. We’re still lacking a stove and a refrigerator. Fuck this. Honestly.

Today I have flown 600 miles from Kansas city AND opened a show. Yesterday was Yom Kippur, for Pete’s sake! Come on God! Cut me some fuckin’ slack! I atoned!

I’ve decided that god is an asshole.

WHY IS MY PLACE OF HABITATION A SHITHOLE?!!?

I am sick and tired of not having a home. I haven’t had a home since my parents were divorced, and that’s when I was 15. And now my new home is trash. It’s a bunch of pus in rotting vomit. Fuck.

Now the reason I say all of this is because I want you to understand my motivations for my actions following. I’m not crazy, I was just under a lot of stress at the time, and sometimes completely clear-minded people just snap. So sue me.

After my agony has overtaken me, I’ve collapsed in a heap in the center of the floor. My head sprawls out and I look at my boxes. Sticking out of the top of one of them is my black machete. The one I bought for camping and picking cacti. It’s a good machete.

My eyes also wander over to the 2-inch-long cockroach crawling across my floor. My Goddamn floor! So I do what any sane person would do. I grab the machete and cleave la cucaracha in two.

It’s still moving. La Cucaracha won’t sit still. I slice again. The head. I slice again, the thorax, I slice again, the antennae.

Why won’t you fucking die?!!?

Before I know it there are hundreds of ridges in the floor from all my thwacking and la cucaracha is now pureed.

My upstairs neighbor begins playing Ozzie Osborne with his bass turned all the way up and I realize that la cucaracha has a few brothers and sisters.

Thousands of roaches pour out from the ceiling tiles, escaping the bass from Ozzie’s double-necked 12-string.

And I snap. I’m not proud of my actions, but they were justifiable. I cannot have vermin in my house. And they always say “fix the problem- fix the source”.

So I went to fix the source.

I grab El Machete and blade gleaming, I walk upstairs and knock three times.

Knock Knock Knock.

“And we’re flying off the rails on our crazy traaa-aaaiinnnn!”

He can’t even get the lyrics right.

I knock again, this time louder.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

And as he opens the door, I slit his jugular. He falls and I smite his ribcage and cleave is heart in two.

I turn off Ozzie.

But the roaches are still there when I return.

I can’t have vermin in my house.

I turn on all the lights and they try to scatter, but there’s too many of them. They can’t scatter. The crawl on each other as a massive ball of roaches rolls across my floor.

My floor.

We have no stove, but we do have a gas line. So I light that instead, and burn La Cucaracha’s brothers and sisters into the Mesozoic era.

I exit the building just as the windows in my new apartment are cracking from the heat.

My next door neighbor whom I have not yet met is on fire and he flings himself from the second story window. He dies as he hits the ground beside me with a thud. His muscles spasm with the heat.

I guess I’ll stay at my girlfriend’s tonight.