Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

floor, feeling pummeled, beaten, and crippled. Words formed in her
head: This pig feels like she should be feeling. But this pig can’t allow
herself to feel, because when she does, she feels very sad and shits a lot.
And it’s useless, rambling shit, just like this. And it would take another
pig to bother with this pig’s shit. Something was strangling her. A sharp
pain, and even deeper darkness, as her throat constricted and her eyes
slammed shut. And then she was drowned in what she somehow knew
was sperm as the words “the Holy Ghost” echoed loudly in her head.
Pig woke up, bathed in cold sweat, on her bed. Her thick down comforter
was wrapped around her legs, and it took her a few moments to
untangle herself. It was still dark out—she had only been asleep for a few
hours. Uttering a feeble groan, she rolled over and picked up the phone,
dialing a few numbers.
“Hey…” she breathed, fumbling around the side of the bed for some
cigarettes.
There was a long pause. Silence on both ends.
“I know I didn’t show. I had, uh—other things to attend to.” She nodded
her head and then laughed quietly. “No, it doesn’t have anything to
do with a Hispanic guy named Juan—and no, I haven’t been abducted by
aliens. I’ve just been busy. Out with old friends… Well, some things just
can’t be expressed that easily in words or with actions or anything. It
sometimes seems… I don’t know, so hard to—yeah, that’s it. It reminds
me of the lyrics to a song which has continually been running through
my head ever since we began to hang out and…and the frustration I have
experienced in attempting to say, show, tell, or in some way reveal to
you how I feel—”
She paused as the person on the other end spoke.
“Yeah, we’ll talk about it later… I’ll see you soon.” She hung up the
phone and prepared to call the other guy. The things I get myself into,
she thought with mixed regret and excitement.
…Silly girls, they gag on the advertisement, they gag but they don’t
throw up, too embarrassed to complete an action their bodies have
deemed necessary. Silly girls (I am shaking my head) they are so silly.
They have flowers they kiss the rosebuds and snarl at the sunflowers.
They don’t even have thorns, they say, relishing the prick, the response
of the blood, rushing happily towards the hole, the oxygen, the light. The
177