Every Person Is A Shopper

I watch you, as you walk down that sidewalk, your hair pulled back in a bun, sticking up in random places on you head where it was cut different lengths, where the knots make it incapable of staying down and normal like all the hair that those other women have. You’re different, with your red business suit, with your suit case with papers and clothing shut in the edges. You’re different than you were before. You’re different then you were before you were destroyed. Before you fell. I know that you never did really care that much that I hurt you, because artists never make anything great when they are happy. You aren’t going to be remembered if you are happy. Hitler wasn’t happy, that’s why he killed all those people. That’s why you don’t care that your blonde hair is a mess, that your nose is bleeding all over your white skin. That’s why you don’t care that those people turn their heads to stare at you as you make your way down the street, down the sidewalk, toward the bus stop, only to reach your next hotel. You’re making your mark right now, and you’re doing it while you bleed from every opening in your body. You’re marking the world because you are in pain. You are in pain because you want to be remembered for generations upon generations.

A paper just fell from your suit case, and no one dares pick it up. That homeless person saw it fall, I know he did, but he isn’t going to pick it up. You are a zombie to every one of them down there, down there walking in that other direction, walking away from you. They pretend that you are invisible, even though they can’t stop staring. They pretend that you aren’t there, because you are a smear on their perfect street. You are shit in their perfect lives. In the city, those business people want everything to be perfect and efficient and everyone to work a little less than they do, so they can be that much better, but they see you, they see you walking on the same street as them, in your expensive clothing, with your expensive suit case, you are the nightmare in their dream land. You’re a nightmare in my dream land. The marks that you are making, the steps that you are taking, every time you move you break another string in my body, you make another pain in my head appear, you’re another noise from my closet, you are that nightmare that won’t leave me alone, and I don’t want you to leave me alone. So I follow you, I walk along the rooftop as you walk below, I watch papers fly from your suit case, I watch blood run down your chin, down your neck, onto your chest and I watch it soak into your red business suit. I’ve always liked nightmares; I’ve always wanted to be afraid of something, so I could conquer it. So that when I’ve conquered it, I’ll be remembered longer than you. Because you are just a piece of shit on my perfect street, but I’m too afraid to leave you. You’ve got me in your grasp, girl. Not for long.

You sit down at the bus stop; I stand there and watch you. I watch you spit the blood from your mouth, I watch you shift your weight, I watch you scratch your ear and I watch the red trickle down your neck, down onto your perfect collar bone. If your hair was brushed you’d be even more perfect than you already are. You’d be the perfect model that everyone secretly envies. But it isn’t, and you aren’t. That’s why I watch you. You’re different now. I watch you to see what you will do next, so I won’t lose you. I watch you so that I can see your next step, so I can see that paper fall from your briefcase, so I can know the future, so I can know that no one will pick it up. I watch you to see what your plan is. How are you going to mark this world? I know that’s what you are doing. I know that’s why you are traveling along those hotels and that’s why you are carrying around that suit case. I know you are waiting for me to show up, so you can finish your plan, and I know that you know that I’m following you. You know me to well. You stand up, you get on that bus, and I climb down from the roof, down the flights of stairs, down that never-ending pathway that I know I’ve walked before. I call that taxi, I see where that bus is going, and that’s where I’m going. I’m following you to the ends of the earth, or to the next hotel. I’m your stalker, I’m your dream, I’m the one who is going to change your life all over again. I know you are expecting me to show up. But guess what. I don’t want you to be remembered because of me, I don’t want everyone to remember me because of you. I’m going to make my own claim to fame, and with my mark, yours will be forgotten. You will be nothing more than what you were before; you’ll be like you were before you fell. You’ll be perfect, you’ll be needy, you’ll be you again. Uncorrupted, unsolicited, undamaged, and ready to be used.

“What is this?” You are saying that. Your hair is blonde and runs down to your ass, which is a nice one. And right now, you are reaching out one of your long fingers with the red nail polish painted onto the end and touching an empty envelope that has masking tape holding it to that blue wall. We’re in our apartment, if you didn’t realize it, and only a few days ago I was arguing with you about the wall color. Yes, blue is the right color. No, I don’t want red, everyone else has red. I bet you’ll remember the blue walls more than you’ll remember the red ones, because I bet you are going to have red walls in your next apartment, in your next house, or somewhere eventually. You always get what you want eventually, well, at least you think you do. You didn’t want anything that was in our apartment, but it’s in there, because I have control over you, and you have yet to realize it. Naive girl. And while I sit in that bright green bean bag chair, I’m scribbling over a piece of paper with my pen. There isn’t really a drawing there, but someone wants to buy it from me, because I painted something nice when I was younger. They think I’m going to get remembered by my painting that I did when I was thirteen. No one is famous when they are alive; you have to wait a while to see if they will remember you to be truly famous. “Why is there an envelope taped to the wall?” You always get impatient with me, which is what you are doing right now, and by the look on your face you are terrified and upset. You never really did understand me. I never really understood me. I never really understood you. You never really understood you.

“It’s an empty envelope.” Sometimes I wonder if you have any sense of living in that brain of yours. Your idea of fun is going out to a fancy restaurant where I have to buy you a piece of cake no bigger than my pinkie for fifty dollars. I’m going to make you buy your own cake soon and me a piece too. “That’s where it belongs.” You don’t like that answer, I can tell by the way you are rolling your eyes...and it’s pretty obvious that you don’t like it, at least that is what you are trying to make it seem like. I’m drawing on that paper again, because I’m going to get fifty bucks for it, that’s more than you make in an hour at that office that you work at. I don’t even know what you do there, and I don’t really care, because you are mine...for now. Soon enough I’m going to make my mark on you and then you’ll remember me until you die, and you’ll have to tell your lover about me too. Don’t worry, I’m not going to cut you into tiny pieces and glue you back together and reincarnate you as the next Frankenstein. You really don’t need any help there. You already are Frankenstein; I don’t care how pretty you are. You can’t hide those stitches around your skull; I know that someone’s been up there messing around with your brain besides me. But I won’t say anything; I know you like to think that you’re perfect up there. Your secret is safe with me. I can keep a secret, that’s why I’m not going to tell you what happens. That’s why you are still in the dark about what is happening in this apartment.

“I’m sick of this. I’m sick of your bizarre habits and the way you never do anything...” I’ve stopped listening by now, I don’t see why you keep blabbering on. I’ve heard this all before. I heard when we first moved in here a year ago and I put a piece of paper over our television with ‘Today everything is fine, even though a few people died.’ written on it. You know you like what I do, because it’s honest. They all tell you the same things on that TV and you have yet to realize it. They aren’t going to tell you that our government is trying to control us. You know why? Because they are the government. Why do you believe things that come from people who want you to vote for them in two years? They are just trying to warm you up and keep you close for the next election. That’s why I threw our TV out the window, and because it broke on the pavement outside, and I’ve always liked seeing things break, like you. That’s what you’re doing right now, slowly and steadily you are breaking. That’s why you haven’t left me yet, because you are breaking. You like the fact that I’m a lunatic, that’s why I act like one. Even though I have to put up with this whining, you the like the fact that I’m not like everyone else. You like the envelopes that I’ve placed all around the room, that have nothing in them or on them. You’re almost done ranting. “You know what, I can’t deal with this right now, I have to go to work.” I knew you were going to say that before you said it. Those words don’t really mean anything, just like your ranting doesn’t mean anything. They are like those envelopes that I’ve taped around the room. Empty.

That paper that I’ve been drawing on is almost completely covered. I’m looking at it right now and wondering why anyone thinks that I’m going to be anything in the art world, it’s just some scribbles. You are just a bunch of scribbles, you know. I don’t know why you think that you are going to be anything in the business world, because you aren’t. That isn’t the place for you. The stop button the tape recorder was just pressed, by my gnawed up and bleeding fingers. Eventually, when you hear these tapes you are going to realize what a fool you were, and when you hear these tapes you are going to learn something. Maybe you’ll fix those stitches on your head, I hope not, because that means I’ll be gone. You won’t. You know why? Because you are foolish. I know that, because you are still here, you are still desperate for me to make love to you, and you are still desperate to understand what I’m doing. I don’t even understand what I’m doing.

Love. I love you because I won’t leave you; you don’t leave me because you love me. That’s what you think. But I don’t, I’ve never loved you, not yet, not ever. I’m sitting here on the bright green been bag, fiddling around with my accordion. If I loved you, I’d be out buying you a bracelet, some flowers, some clothes. If I loved you I’d be wasting my life trying to keep you in love with me forever. It’s already been a month, you know. It’s been a month since you first met me at the fair. Since you first saw me playing away on my accordion with my five million layers of shirts that don’t match. I was a lunatic and an ass, and that’s what girls like. Girls like assholes who will make their lives a living hell, because it means drama. Ask any girl and they would lie, they would say drama sucks, but what else would they talk about with their friends? Nothing. They don’t have anything better do then whine and moan about how the world suppresses them. Honestly enough, everyone is like that, men included. And of course I’m included, why else would I be doing this right now? I’m a drama-whore. I’m craving for something new to feed on because I’m tired of the bullshit that I’ve seen on television. Oh no! Our favorite celebrity couple broke up! Guess what? People are reduced to talking about that because they have no drama in their own lives. You won’t be talking about celebrities for the next year after I fuck you over. Guess what you’ll be talking about?

            Right now I’m walking away from my accordion, from our blue room with the furniture that clashes slightly with its bright shades. Green bean bag chair with blue walls doesn’t really fit. But I don’t care. I like to mismatch. That’s why I’m wearing a polka-dotted shirt while I’m wearing plaid pants. That’s why I have a bright red messenger bag. That’s why my hair is blue and bright orange. Because it’s obnoxious enough to make you want to pull it out. That’s why you love me. You aren’t going to lose me in a crowd of look-alikes. I’m the zombie that ran. I’m the zombie that didn’t hold its arms rigid. I’m the zombie that was on the verge of coming back to life. I’d like some tea with my brain, please. But the other people down there, outside my window, beneath the flowerbox, those people don’t want tea with their brain. They are wandering through this world thinking they are doing something worth while. If you are rich, if you are successful, you aren’t doing something worthwhile. You’re wasting your time, assholes. No one remembers you if you do your job well. Most people don’t really care though. I just care too much. I’m not out to take over the business world. I’m out to take over the whole world, and to force it to remember me. I’m out to eat everyone’s brains, along with all their food, and everything that they’ve ever owned. I’m going to be the fattest zombie in the group. It’s going to take more than a nuke to stop me.

I’m leaving the site of the zombies, stepping into my oversized bowling shoes with their squares of neon orange and pink. I’m running a hand through my whirlwind of hair and I’m throwing on my tweed jacket. If anyone could win a contest for being most unique it’d be me. But few people really realize it. Those stairs that I’m walking down, I walk down them everyday. I know that there are 157 of them exactly, not including the landings that I have to take two steps on every time the stairs take a turn. People think I’m weird because I walk down them and I don’t use the elevator. You know why I don’t use the elevator? Because there is a chance that it will crash and if it does I’m not going down with it. Cement stairs will never break...unless you try and nuke me. But it’s hard to try and hit something when you don’t know where it is, or what it is. Right now I’m a mystery to you, and I always will be if everything works out fine.

That street that I’ve stepped on is filled with those living-dead people. They already are eating my brain. Their eyes are piercing into mine, because I look like a disheveled mess. They are the mess. I’m the sane one. I’m not wasting away in an office building. I’m leeching my way to success. Probably they’ll tell their friends about the guy that they saw on their way to work today, with the hair that swirled and looked as if it had way too much hair spray, or not enough shampoo. It’s neither. My hair is rather wiry. You hate it. If you were watching me through a window right now, I know you’d be satisfied. You don’t care what I’m doing, as long as you can watch. I’ve caught you in my trap, you are under my spell and you love everything I do. Can I marry you? You asked me that once. I said no. You had sex with me right then, on the spot. I’m a charming bastard.

These streets that I’m walking down right now are prettier than most people think they are. The ground is covered in mud, in wrappers, in gum and litter and all I can see is how beautiful it is. That pastel blue wrapper is drifting among the crowd of suits and that’s me. That piece of pink bubble gum is stuck to the bottom of some one’s shoe and that’s you. Crinkle. He stepped on the blue wrapper, dragging us, stuck together underneath his shoe along for the ride. That was a stupid analogy, and I regret thinking it. I’m not stuck to you. No one else is in control. I am controlling everything.

Right now I’m headed toward your office. You know why? Because I have control. I’m going to prove that in a moment, once I pass all these buildings. Once I pass the stores that have clothes that would only look good on someone that had no fat on any part of their body except for their breasts. Yeah, they aren’t made for fat people, which make up a majority of our population. You’d be fine though, don’t worry. Those clothes that are for an exclusive audience are splashed with color, and obviously trying to be slightly retro. Why? Can they not make a new style anymore? Are they out of ideas? Next thing you know disco will be in. The next store is the same, except is has an area for plus sized women. Suits, dresses, skirts, shirts, I’ve passed all the stores that are interesting to look at. I’ve passed all the colors; I’ve passed everything that is bright. The walls are grey; there are a few windows to look at. Window shopping. But no clothes are shown off. Trinkets, jewelry, I’m ready to leave this place before I waste my money on something pointless. It won’t be long before I reach your building, before I reach your office.

You told me that you are in advertising, and that it’s not worth explaining what you really do. It has to do with cars, or something. All I know is that you make money. Enough to buy those retro clothes that will be popular again in another sixty years. Save them for your grandchildren to find in the attic one day when they care about what they wear. Here I am, standing in front of that twirling glass door, stepping in, wondering what I will see today. You told me never to come back to your office again, after the last time when I brought you lunch. Your co-workers thought I was some bum trying to rape you. You told them that I wasn’t a bum. I never listen to you anyways, so here I am, marching toward the elevator, past the elevator, to the stairs. They are much better than the stairs at our building, the paint isn’t fading off of them, and they have massive glass panes like in a sky-scraper for walls so you aren’t trapped in the dark. I told you once that you had to get an office lower to the ground. You went down one floor. I pass a couple co-workers, and they all remember me from last time. They stare at me to show that they do, and manage to force a smile right when they walk by me. Too late for me to respond.

Knock, knock, knock. 213 shines at me with its golden letters. I stare at my reflection in them. I run a hand through my wild mass of hair, only managing to flatten it slightly. I don’t really care. You open the door, wondering who it is. No one ever knocks at office buildings, and no one ever closes the doors either. A guy in a suite is sitting down on one of those metal chairs with black leather cushions, his hair almost as wild as mine. You look frightened, and so does he. Soon enough he’s on his feet and walking out. I know you think I’m going to say something, but I’m not, well, not at least what you want to hear. “I don’t care if you have sex with him.” You should see your face. Your mouth is open as if you are about to speak. I know you hate what you just heard; it means that I don’t care about you, that’s how I know you won’t cheat on me. If I don’t care about you, you are going to have to try hard to get me to. You’re quiet for a few more moments, then I watch you walk back to your desk. It’s black too. All the furniture is black, the walls and carpet white. I hate your sense of style. I sit down on that metal chair that your lover was sitting on a few moments ago. I’m not sitting down for long. I’m making my way over to you as you stare at me. You stare at me with your big blue eyes, in your teal shirt, in your jeans, you and me are the only color in this room. I’m sitting down on your big black desk, its warm from where you two were just having sex.

“I want to cut you open and feel your insides.” That was me saying that, and you just stare at me. “I want to know every nook and cranny in you.” Your lips part and for a moment. I consider making out with you. I’m quiet for a while, I’m not going to say anything more and I really don’t feel like touching you. You probably have a STD now. My green eyes wander around the room, around those blank walls for a moment. I know you want me to do something right now. I know you think this silence is awkward, but it’s not. I stand up, leaving behind that black desk and walking toward that wall. I open up by red messenger bag. We are the color in this room. I pull out a bottle of spray paint. You are staring at me, not saying anything. Why do I have this control over you? We are the color in this room. I paint the walls with the bright green, with the neon yellow, with the orange, with the pink, the blues, and the reds, and every color imaginable. And as I paint I speak. “When you die, I’m going to eat your tissues.” I’m painting that wall still. “So that you’ll never be alone.” I don’t think you realize what it is yet that I’m painting on your wall. We are the only color in this room. I’m standing there for another thirty minutes. No one dares go into your office when I’m in there. We might be fornicating on the desk. It’s never safe in your office. There’s always sex in here. We are the only color in this room. The Ferris wheel is finished, the balloons are hovering over a man in a white suit, the merry-go-round is entertaining a group of children that are fighting over the horses. Candy stands and fried-dough. We are the only color in this room. The paint stops being sprayed and you are sitting there like you were before, your mouth partially open. I stare at you with a smirk, because you are mine and that’s all that matters. We are the only color in this room.

Florescent-lighting, that’s what I’m staring at right now. I’m sitting in the black metal chair that your lover was sitting in earlier and my arm is wrapped around your waist. You’re sitting on my lap, staring at that mural that I just painted on the wall. We don’t talk much, you and I. Most of the time we just sit with each other in complete silence, every now and then one of us will say something but the other will just respond with a ‘yeah’, sending us into another silence. One of those silences that you think is awkward, even though I know it isn’t. It’s times like those when I wonder if I should still stick around. Is it really worth breaking your heart to be in control? The answer is yes. To be in control is something that so many people have strived for, for hundreds of years of human existence. Thousands of years. Millions might work, but I don’t know. I have no idea how many years humans have existed. I don’t know how many people have walked that ground that we’ve covered in our black tar. I don’t know what creatures have walked the earth beneath our layers and layers of metal and buildings and pipes and pavement. There’s no escaping the fact that one day you’ll be buried away and forgotten about until you’ve become some corpse that no one knows anything about. Eventually, after you mark up your world with its few forests scattered here and there, with its cities bursting out of the earth like zits, you’ll be lost again until someone digs you up and takes out your corpse into the world of chrome and flying cars. Into that world where nothing is the way that it is now. Probably this view of the future that we’ve been fed since we were children through the media is a load of shit. Probably we’ll never have flying cars and we’ll all have to become cannibals because we’ll have depleted every other resource on the world. Don’t listen to me, I’m filled with just as much shit as the media is. Oh wait, you don’t know that yet.

If I told you right now that I was going to ruin your life I doubt you would take me seriously. I’ve told you why a million times already so I might as well just stop bringing it up and rubbing it in your face. I have control of you. I just had to tell you again. I keep my arm wrapped around your waist as you sit on my lap, I keep my fingers entwined with yours, every now and then pulling you up on my lap further so you won’t slide off. You actually think that I’m doing that so I’ll be closer to you. I just don’t want your ass on the floor. You’d probably whine and say it was my fault. I’m not going to let you soak up this moment for too much longer. Eventually my leg is going to fall asleep, or I’m going to get bored out of my mind because I’m not so caught up in myself as you are in me. Eventually I’m going to need a break from you. I need a break from you. I’m letting your hand go and you stand up when you feel me move my weight, and I’m standing up. Your big round eyes stare into mine and I smirk. I might just have to stare back into your eyes for a few seconds. One, two, three. That was long enough. Now I’m leaving that mural painted on your wall and I’m walking away. Right now I’m headed off to live the rest of my day, waiting for you to come home, ready to yell at me. Your mouth didn’t emit those screaming noises now, be it for the simple fact that you have nothing to be mad at yet.

I’m walking out your door, I’m walking down those steps and while I do I know your boss is walking into your office. He’s wearing his grey suite with his bright red tie. It burns if you stare at it for too long. He then turns his head and sees that paint on his wall. He sees the empty bottles of spray paint scattered on the floor and he sees smears of paint on your hand from where you held mine. Yeah, I set you up, but you don’t realize it. Your boss, with his big pot-belly and bald head, asks you what happened. When he talks his five chins jiggle. You just stand there with a smirk on your face. You’re wearing my smirk now. I’ve rubbed off more than that paint onto you. You know, he’s just going to warn you right now. He’s saying as I walk down the street that he’s sick of your behavior. You’re good work ethic isn’t enough to make up for your painting and love-making. Maybe if you had fucked him you wouldn’t be getting fired as I turn a door knob and walk into one of those stores that I saw on my way to your work. Maybe you wouldn’t come home ready to kill me. I know you won’t really kill me.

I’m reaching into my back pocket and pulling out my leather wallet with its pink spots on it. White leather with pink spots, and my plaid pants. I’m buying you a skirt. I’m buying you a jacket. I’m buying you a shirt to wear underneath that jacket. I’m buying you a suite right now. One of those red business suites. I’m going to get you another job so you don’t hate me as much as you would. I already have it chosen out and everything. I know that you’ll hate it at first but in the end it’ll be wonderful. For me at least...You’ll have to learn to love it eventually. You’ll learn to love everything that I’m doing to you, and then I’ll leave you to cope with it all. So my hand reaches into that wallet and pulls out three twenty dollar bills. Someone told me once that it was illegal to write on money. It’s amazing how little people pay attention to those little laws. Those little laws that you never get busted for. No one really cares if you J-walk, or if you don’t wear a seatbelt. Wait, they do in some states. They shouldn’t. Everyone knows that if you die because you didn’t wear a seatbelt it’s your fault. And if you’re stupid enough to write on money than it’s your fault that you get lectured. I know it’s my fault that a little boy told me I’d get in trouble when I wrote “I bet no one’s ever seen you without make-up.” Do you know that song? It’s by some Emo band that’s all the rage now adays. Brand New...Don’t ask me to name the song because I can’t. You’re the one who plays it all the time anyways.

I hand the money to the man at the cash register. He’s black, African-American, whatever you want to call him. He has more defined features than you do, and he’s way handsomer than me. I’m not even handsome. For some reason he seems a bit more interesting than you. When I step forward holding that handful of women’s clothing. When I step forward his head doesn’t move. His brown eyes don’t move to see who’s stepping toward him. They’re glued on the wall directly in front of him. His name tag says ‘Armistead’. I can’t believe someone would name their kid that. Armistead’s hand fumbles to the white tag on the jacket, on the shirt, on the skirt, his eyes never moving. I watch his hands as they take the hangers off, I watch every move that he makes and there is no flaw. He’s a machine. His eyes aren’t cloudy like how you imagine a blind man’s eyes would be. That probably only happens in the movies anyways. The clothes are put in a plastic bag and I turn sideways, I turn to walk away. Armistead opens those two plump lips that are under his perfect nose, on that perfect face. He’s the kind of guy that someone would go gay for. “When are you going to leave her?” It amazes me how much blind people know. A shrug and I don’t care anymore. He probably thought I was someone else, or he knew what I was doing. Either way it doesn’t matter.

I’m wandering down the sidewalk; Armistead is left without a response. He’s probably used to that anyways, except for when a girl comes in. Every girl would probably try and have sex with him right then and there. I’ve always been kinda jealous of guys like that. But then I realize that it must suck, not being able to see what you’re fucking. And there would be no chase. Okay, so I’ve never been jealous of guys like that. Armistead is still in the back of my mind as I turn the doorknob to our apartment. You must have to me a momma’s boy your entire life when you’re blind. Or at least until you get married. Who else would make sure your clothes didn’t look like mine? I set the bag of red clothing down on the bean bag chair in our shockingly blue living room. Then I walk into our pink filled kitchen and turn on the stove. A tea kettle is sitting on top of it and I close my eyes, listening to the nothing in the apartment. One, two, three, four, creak. Four steps from the oven to the bedroom door before you reach a squeak. When you’re blind you must know every inch of your surroundings. You probably see better when you’re blind. I’m a child again as I walk along our apartment in the dark. If I could memorize this entire apartment in the dark then I wouldn’t be in the dark at night. You’d be amazed by the way that I avoid the creaks when I’m strangling you in bed. I don’t know why I want to strangle you. I don’t know why I want to memorize our apartment. I really do, actually. It’s because I’m a Sadist, and I know that that will be the ultimate proof of my control over you. The fact that you’d love to be strangled by me. The Sadist and the Masochist make a lovely couple.