Congratulations on Murdering Your Ex With a Hammer!

Bruises on thighs turned to bruises on lips and eyes and then it had to end. Four years ago, three if we use dates as a means of tracing time back to the time before calendars became unfortunate inconveniences. It was a bad breakup, a bad end to a bad time that made you do bad things.

It would be easy to say that you hated him before, that you hated him when you swung at his skull, but you didn’t really. You knew the face, not the eyes but the shape, the hairline, the half-beard, the scar. You let the hammer carry through, obliterate the skin and bone and muscles underneath and didn’t concern yourself with cleanup.

It was the way of things – you and your friends needed food. He was already dead. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t blink, just limped and lurched towards you stiffly. When he fell you imagined a sigh of relief, though it was probably just gas escaping. It will be a heartbeat where you’ll feel selfless, like you’ve done something good for someone for a change. That isn’t a feeling you get to have that much anyone, so that’ll mean a lot.

Once the dust has settled you won’t remember where his body falls. You won’t try to find him or say any sort of last rite above him to sanctify what has transpired. You’ll grab all the oatmeal you can, stuff it into a duffel bag along with readymade soups, boullion and anything that was still sealed inside of a plastic bag. You won’t even look down as you walk out, but that night you’ll dream of him, what he looked like long before.

You’ll think about the time you had with him, the moments you felt happy, the end, the devastation and the movement beyond what he said: that he couldn’t deal with being someone who’d been raped, that the burden was too great for him. You’ll recall the weeks before the ending, the weeks that stretched into months, the self-destruction that came back, that almost didn’t leave.

When you wake up the next day in your sleeping bag, ass to ass with the man you’ve been fucking whenever you can find a safe moment of privacy, you’ll have a big grin on your face. You won’t be able to describe way, even to yourself.

Congratulations on Murdering Your Ex With a Hammer!

Congratulations Drug Addled Youth!

Today you’re just a couple of drug addled teens having the time of your life.

“Phewwwww!” you’ll breathe to yourself, running with arms outstretched back and forth across your parent’s backyard. “I’m an airplane!”

Your buddy Tommy will laugh.

“Yeah right!” he’ll say. Then he’ll take some more children’s aspirin and you’ll totally turn into an airplane for him too and he’ll break into your dad’s shed and grab a hammer and murder you with it.

Your story will become a cautionary tale for the abuse of children’s aspiring for decades to come. Although you’ll be a black girl and Tommy will be a racist little white boy, instead of Tommy being Hispanic and you being Jewish and both of you being kind of gay for each other.

That’s how history works, though. Sometimes it gets the details wrong.

Congratulations Drug Addled Youth!

Congratulations on Saving the Cheerleader!

Today, following the message of Heroes, you’re going to save a cheerleader in a small Texas town from her gang rape at the hands of a football team. It’ll all be going down after a big game where they lost against Rival School, and they’ll be all pissy, claiming they didn’t get the cheers they needed to win. In their minds vengeance against women is the only possible solution (they’re from Texas).

You’ll show up and step out of your dusty and beleaguered Toyota Camry, hammer in hand, just where and when that gypsy told you to be. You’ll tighten your grip as you see the men closing around the terrified girl and you’ll charge in without a word as you see them undoing their pants and masturbating while staring at each other.

Your arrival will trigger a combination of homosexual panic and confusion in them that will lead to them “turtling” both physically and emotionally, leaving you to wail on them with that hammer. The few who stand will be pummeled first, their skulls ruptured by the hammer’s head. They won’t know how to fight against someone who isn’t in pads and is actually trying to kill them, so most team members will just curl up in a ball on the ground and hope for you to leave.

But you’ll kill every last kinda-gay one of them. And when you hold out your hand to the cheerleader, covered in blood and brains and other vile, vile fluids that the body releases upon being beaten with a hammer, she’ll scream. She’ll scream at you and run away, just like every other girl you’ve ever known. But you know you did right by her and that she’s just kind of a bitch, so you’ll muster the courage that you never have with other women and shout after her sarcastically.

“You’re welcome!”

Congratulations on Saving the Cheerleader!