Ode to Imaginary Arguments in the Shower Antonio Fielding
My Sanctum How I adore thee The domain of cheap candles ~fervent masturbation~, and boiling myself to perfection as I whine and whistle like a teakettle with the finest artisanal brew to be doused upon that bitch who cut me off during my commute As the scalding droplets imbued with God’s wrath inundate my flesh with arcane knowledge of how to belittle my enemies; my body becomes a channel. Funneling the headwaters into the inevitable cascade of cacophonous curses against different insults: like a snippy spritz of jealousy from a rando about how my kind of humor is a drag. The ecstasy I feel as I craft rebuttal after rebuttal to your now child-like remarks. The steam enveloping me in it’s loving embrace. The fan siphoning the pearls of rage away as they escape out into the night to hopefully drown them in some coincidental act of ultimate karmic justice. I feel my adoring fans, the apparitions I have created in my head to be my entourage of vengeance, offering their validating cries to pay recompence for the atrocities you cast upon me. As if I had deserved to be convinced that I needed to change myself for you. My victory lap begins as I conclude my argument with a deluge of vindications that will never be heard nor appreciated by them or anyone for that matter as I know that this same old story will continue. I will return to my shrine, heal my wounds, and tell you off once again. If only for a moment I could – speak my mind outside of this languid temple as free as a whirling tempest, but for now I will reside to soaking the sadness out of me in this sad puddle of tears. 17
