You are probably pretty fucking amazing, and one of the best examples of a real goddamn human being there are on this spinning shit of a world.

If you are someone that I care about, do something for yourself and pretend it's from me.

I'll get to you someday.

YES INDEED, CLICK THE HELL OUT OF THIS.

That clears that up, then.

What matters is a gun.

Sixteen. Shiny--gleaming, even. Smooth, like bone; smoother than skin. Round where it should be, hard and uncompromising where the curves die.

What matters is my aim. What matters is my nerves, my sight, my twitch, my contacts, the rain, the wind. What matters is soulless; what matters is a soul.

What matters is property. I am the repo man.

What matters is the means, and these are the means. This is the means; they are the means. This trigger is the means, and it is what matters.

Death is the ends, and it does not.

--

What matters is bleeding.

And even when it isn't, he doesn't want it. Even when I'm there, he doesn't care. I'm nothing, I'm subhuman. I've seen the chicks he keeps, and I know he doesn't care about them. I'm less than a husk.

What matters is scarring.

What matters is the time I saw him coming out of the showers after fourth period, when I showed up early to gym and he didn't have a towel. Ten minutes matter.

Hormones matter. Strength matters.

And his lips were like velvet, despite the words they were forming. And his eyes were so clear, narrowed and hateful as they were. And his body was as finely toned as they say, trapping me beneath it the way it did.

What matters are dreams; what does not matter is reality.

What matters will never heal properly, they told me. And when they asked me for the millionth time, what matters is that I didn't tell them. I will never tell them, ever, and you can stake my life on that. What matters is loyalty.

He looks so scared when he looks at me, but I don't know why. I corner him in the halls, and he shrinks away. I call him, having found his number in the directory, but he doesn't answer. His parents tell me to leave their property when I drop by.

But I love him...doesn't that matter?

--

What matters is a home.

What matters is a goddamn working stove, because I'll be fucked if I'm going to use the cigarette lighter again. What matters is this stupid fucking subpoena.

I can't listen to my daughter cry at night again. I can't listen to my son's stomach anymore. I can't listen to my wife's disembodied phone-calm bullshit again.

What matters are pills.

What matters is this shitty check. What matters are the stares of those entitled vicenarian faggots at the supermarket, with their associates' in smoking weed and wasting my fucking time. Security guards matter; watch imprints on wrists matter. Hairs, fingernails, eyelashes matter. Eyewitnesses matter.

What matters is the way my heart jumps when I hear car doors shut outside. What matters is a mortar and pestle, because I don't have time to take them individually. And another drink; what matters is cheap. And I'm just about done listening to all that fucking noise my neighbors are making.

My daughter is asleep; my son is still at school. My wife won't call until the end of the week.

No one to see me head to the bathroom, no one to hear me lock it. That matters.

^