Oh, we all fucking love butterflies so fucking much. “Oh, look at the beautiful butterfly,” people say. “Lovely!” everyone else says. And they shoo the cat away from eating it. Everyone dumbly bobs their heads around, following the stupid thing as it mindlessly twirls around in the air like a lost Kleenex. “Pretty.”
Not a one of you thinks of the poor, ravaged cocoons.
Well, here at a hotel on Cramps Boulevard in Migraineville, I am most certainly thinking of the cocoons, as my womb is currently trying to eat through my viscera and escape to become a real live butterfly. This hideous creature will soon spread its bloody wings and flit through the sky, grotesque and alive, looking for nectar. And you will have encouraged it by watching America’s Next Top Butterfly reruns on the Interstitial Broadcasting Channel. I hope you’re pleased with yourselves.
Ugh. I’m weak sauce. I only get crampy three or four times a year and I can’t take it. All of my guts rebel, from port to stern, and I lie in bed doubled over with a heating pad on my belly for hours. It’s awful. As awful as the uterus monster that soon shall erupt from my abdomen will be. Seriously, that’s the only explanation. I can’t think of any other reason I could be in so much pain. Someone said I might have a cyst. I don’t know. It’s probably time to see my gynecologist, whose name is something like, no fooling, Dr. Douche. He really has a last name that is a feminine hygiene product. He and his name are awesome.
Here are the facts:
- I’m dying
- My body is the agent that is killing me
- I have no written will
- I did nothing to my organs to deserve this
- I never knew before this that I was the shell for something else that was pupating inside me à la Alien
- I got in a time machine and called Das EFX, and they said this shit is “wiggedy wiggedy wack”
That is all. If you see my hollowed out husk of a body blowing around my train tracks where the tumble weeds (for reals for reals, we have tumble fucking weeds in the ghetto) and mattresses hang out, you’ll know what happened.