By Johnny Tenderloin
I was eleven years old, and it was love at the first fifteen window panes. I still recall the bloodstained texture of the hardware store tiling like it was yesterday. My metamorphic transformation into the Burlington Bullet. The Mangled Mange. The flesh and glass mosaic on Aisle Five. From that moment on, hours before the trauma center catheter even entered me, my body and spirit had become awakened to a transcendental euphoria like no other.
No longer did I feel the need to capitulate to delusory whims of authority, care about fulfilling my peers avarice for ostracization, or acquiesce to the false dominions of stability and permanence. I welcomed the entropic, destructive nature of being with a warm embrace. Blunt, sharp, thick, thin; none of it could withstand the primordial violence of a hulking 180 lb skinnyfat adolescent violently shoulder checking, juking, brusque stiff arming that shit. No desk un-powerbombed, no pencils unbroken and unsplintered, no tissue of skin uncut.
I’ve tried it all growing up. Fucking, cumming, sunset watching, autoerotic paragliding asphyxiation, the woodland opiate den, but nothing gives me a comparable, familiar, Nirvanic womb feeling quite like TKO dropkicking a bathroom air dryer out of the wall. Bludgeoning an aluminum trash can to completion has exhumed my loneliness quite like no amount of platonic friends or intimate romantic partners ever would. I’ve had my fair share of tetanus, gangrene, wounds, scabs, pus bubbles, and NDE’s accrued over the years, but I wouldn’t trade those heaving, vomiting, all-natty DMT floor trips for the world.
As the old Confucian proverb goes, do what you love, and never work a day in your life, which is exactly why I’m openly offering my services to slowly kill myself to support myself as a freelance independent contractor. If you have shit you want broken, please email me at email@example.com for further inquiry. Payments operate upon a NET30 contract, but feel free to draw out the ghosting, nebulous updates, vague tax forms, and pulling teeth for compensation even longer. I am a connoisseur of misery whomst will stop at nothing* to quell his gluttonous appetite for pain and debasement.
(*Not even sounding)