I am Matthew

In some places in South America they’ve a festival where they stick swirly fireworks onto a bull’s horns a watch it run about the town square with its horns on fire. I read that by accident on the net when I was looking for a website about Shakira, hoping for good pictures to print out and paste my Mom’s head onto with my new photoshop stuff she got me after my front teeth fell out. Shouldn’t have removed that bubble wrap. Nice and full now though. With this and the dog kennel spoils I’m stockpiling nicely. I entered South America and Hot into a Google search. Got a picture of a bull running about with two haloes of sparks on its head. My dick limped. The image stuck.
24 hour girl, the one I despise-like at the 24 hour shop is definitely interested. I saw her staring at me in the security screens and the mart last weekend when I was trying to drive a wiener up into a slushy machine nozzle. I’d taken my chair with me and she said she liked what I’d done with it. I’ve painted it orange with a confederate flag on the seat. It’s my General Lee. I’m the Duke of Albuquerque. She laughed when I said that. I think I like her more than despise her. I like-despise her. The wads can was still there. I wonder if my foot flakes are making the spam grow? I paid for my cherry ice flavoured raw wiener, even though she said I could just fucking take it. Gifts.
Later that night, this was Monday, I attached the fireworks I stole from Mikey to the wheels of my chair. With a long kitchen match in my hand I rolled my chair, me hopping behind, because my arms can’t take me uphill after a good cock wash session right up to the top of the hill that runs down to the street where 24 hour girl lives. I lit the fuses, cherry bombs, catherine wheels, bottle rockets, and began to roll. As I picked up speed the fucking thing went off, squealing and popping and making ungodly noise (Does the bull squeal – note to self, find out, get mp3 of bull squeal) fires of red white and blue I was the festival bull of Albuquerque and I shot down 24 hour girls’ street past her house in a blaze of fire and sparks. Her light didn’t even come on.
I could feel my hands burning so couldn’t stop the chair. The rubber on the wheels melted and I ran on rims. Orange sparks added. A piece of molten rubber attached itself to the side of my head and I slapped at myself to remove it. I’ve got a red raw bald bit there above my right ear now. Should grow back mom said. Not the top of the ear though according to the skin man.
At the bottom of her street is a sharp turn and across the turn a valley. My chair hit the curb and the general and I tumbled in flames into the bushes. Down the valley setting it alight was we fell, a trail of fire. Finally I stopped when my head became lodged between two trees, and the general bounced of a rock and landed in a tall pine. It went up like last year’s christmas tree after I got at it with the aerosol and lighter.

As I look out at the flames now, still burning across the entire horizon, I hope 24 hour girl knows they are hers.

And so am I.

Every time I look over my shoulder I see George W. Bush wagging his finger at me. I wince and turn away, but he’s always there. He’s always there scolding my knee, aping my disability. I see planes with our brave heroes in them. I see my brother in the thick of battle. All those brave soldiers in their uniforms. I see all of this in the President’s mouth hole as he laughs me into a shame-funk. Flames of oil fields are his tonsils and he expels spittle bullets when he snarls. I don’t see him if I look in the mirror. I’ve begun carrying a mirror in case I ever need to look behind me. I’ve attached it to my head using a wire coat hanger made into a loop-hat. It dangles in front of mine eyes like a carrot in front of a donkey. Have I not done enough Mr. President-Lord? My website praises you, I think about you when I lather myself to a state, I-I-I-I
AAAAGGHHHNNNNHHAAAAAAYYYY this knee bolt marks me for a traitor!

I carry mom’s hair scissors now. If I see him I’m going to stab his terrible eyes out. But I hope I never do.

Sometimes I wear my brother’s old uniform. I take out my bolt and bend my leg under me and sit on it in my wheelchair. I’ve made some medals from old coins and condom wrappers. I go to the 24 hour store and sit outside. People think I’m a veteran. I like the attention. I get hard and they think it’s cute that I got the use of my rod back. Old ladies touch it. On these days I do not need the mirror. On these days Mr. Bush hides in my chair under my crumpled leg meat. On these days he loves me back.

I start at the kennels tomorrow. Dog boy. Mikey’s eye is better. My social worker booked from the shit incident is due on Monday and I’m constipated after the shower head and dictafone left my anal tract cleft in twain. Need supplies.

I’m going out now in my uniform. There’s an air show in town and people will think I was a pilot. When people say they know me, I tell them they’re mistaken. I hear laughing sometimes as I wheel by. The laughing makes Bush scrape my legskin. But not when he’s over my shoulder. Then he’s the one laughing.

Difficult to write this down. Left the thing on all night. Most of it is bouts of silence and heavy breathing and farting. Sometimes a dog barks, sometimes you can hear rustling in the room, me moving in my sleep. Sometimes I talk, garbled jibberings. But there is one section.

“(silence)
(deep breath/sigh)
(movement…jerky, alimb in a bed or something like that…a twitch)
(silence 15 seconds)
AAAAAGGGHHHHHHHHHHH
(deep breath)
(silence 30 seconds)
(Movement, rustling in the bed, groan, footsteps)
AAAAAGGHHHHAAAAAHAAAAAAA
(slapping noises, what sounds like tearing, thumping)
SPINACHCHCHCHCEAT MY GREEEEEEENS EAT MY GEEEEEEENS
AAAAGHHHGHHHHNNNNYYYYAAAAAAGH
(slapping, ripping noises)
(distant siren)
(banging banging banging)
(Loud thump)
(silence 10 seconds)
AAGHSPINACHNNNYAAAGH EAT MY GREEEEEENS
(Slapping, some kind of squelching noise)
UUHHHUUHHHSPPPPPIINNNchCH
UUGGH
(Splattering noise? Like when a ketchup bottle finally squirts)
(heavy breathing…fast)
(what sounds like a baby laughing)
(LOUD CRACKLE)
SPINACHEATEATEATSCISSORSWADSAAAAGHNNNNN
(Rustling, crackling…then all sound muffled)
(muffled) SPINACH IN ME SPINNNACHCHCEAT IN MEMOM UH UH UH
(muffled) Matty? Matty are you ok? (That’s Mom)
(muffled) YYYAAAAAGGGHHHHHSPPPPPPIIINNNNAACH IN ME LOOOOKLOOOOOK
(muffled) Oh Matty! Oh God no no no (crying)(door slamming)….)
(muffled grunts)

Ends.

I guess that’s where the batteries died.

This morning I woke up and Mom was gone. To work I guess, but normally she leaves later. My room looked normal except for the dictafone. It was under my pillow a caked in shit. Mine I think. My ass hurts. My eyes hurt. I showered and the shower head wasn’t satisfying anymore. I was open. I need to re-align my knee bolt. My leg hangs at a funny angle today.
I put the shitty dictafone in mom’s church hat. I recorded my self one last time. I recorded my self cock washing my own assneck without her. I thought about 24 hour girl. I went to speak into the dictafone again but the smell was unbearable. I put the hat under her bed.

"AAAAGGGGHHHHHH
AAAGHHHHHYYANNNNNNHAAAAAAAGGGH
UNhhhh unh unh unh
MMMMMMM AAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH"

Mom bought me this dictafone thing. Dr. Spinach told her to. Said it would be cathartic. Her words.
I’ll post transcripts.

“Testing…Mattymattymatty…testing”

OK seems to work.

When I sniff I think of what it looks like. My ambidextrous switching of fingers from anus to nostril to keep the smell fresh. Like a flopping haddock taken from the water and prior to its head crack gift from the sailor. Naked on the bathroom floor. Mom screams when she catches me like this. Then cock washes me, usually. Tomorrow at Spinach's we're investigating my fear of sexual intimacy. In this game I have to stand in front of a full length mirror naked, and look at my growing erection. Dr. Spinach leaves the room for this part. Although sometimes I hear scrathing at the door. I called the dog kennel. They need a Saturday Dog-Boy. That'll be me. I'm getting empty. Too little for my needs. Need supplies. I'm barren. Mom felt safe enought to take the plastic down. Still got gum in my hair. Mom said I was a retarded frog-child and told me to take care of it myself. I swallowed 13 or 14 prozac my Mom kept in her sock drawer and began chipping with a nail file. The gum stayed put and the blood ruined my shirt, which I was using backwards as a surgical gown...condoms for gloves. I didn't tell mom. After I'd vomited and slept for a few hours I showered, and the cuts weren't large enough for stitches. When it stops throbbing I'll ask mom about the gum again. In the mentime I'm going to try and freeze it with anti-persperant.

Fell asleep with my finger in my anus. In the morning I see the sheets are twisted round me. I thought they were snakes when dreaming. They have stains on them. Back-end residue. Some blood. And Scotch. Mom must've been to check on me.
Mom used to leave a baby monitor in my room because to see me frightened her. By her bed and head in her room she heard my groans and would come check only if it sounded like permanent damage. Her words.

Cops got called last night. They wanted to ask me about the neighborhood cats. I told them I'm not into that anymore, and mom made them eat some casserole before they left. She prays for me.

Went out last night, or rather, very early this morning. Cool morningnight air tickled my itch further at the start, but when I took off my shoes it felt much better. I left my shoes on Mr. Ferguson’s doorstep, with his milk and paper. I poured his milk into the left shoe and sat the paper inside, cartoons sticking out.
The 24 hour store has a girl behind the counter that I despise-like. She looked at me crooked headed when I walked in dirty footed and with milk on my hands. Her voice is nice though, but sometimes she says things. I was waiting for her to run my purchased gum through the register and the heat and air conditioning in the neon shop was making my knee hurt, and my feet itch real bad. There was a sign on the door. A local dog kennel looking for staff. I took a number. When she looked over the counter I was on the floor rubbing the soles of my feet with a spam I’d de-canned to stop the itching. She said I’d have to pay for it, but agreed when I pointed out that no-one would notice the difference and I stuffed it back into the can and left it upside down on the shelf. It read wads. I thought of my MacDonalds cup at home and the milk in Mr. Ferguson’s shoe, and Dr. Spinach and my mom and my own genital mound. I thought of the girl who was handing me a kleenex for my drool, which I hadn’t noticed. I slapped her hand away and told her she had a nice voice, but that she should shut the fuck up. My knee bolt squeaked and I pained. Left my chair at home, thought I could make the walk. I took a shopping trolley and hopped behind it to gather speed. Then flopped myself inside and it fell sidewise immediately. Lying in the road gutter I chewed all of the gum until my mouth became burstful. I leaned on the uprighted trolley and hop-rolled home. At Mr. Ferguson’s I put half of the chew gum in the right shoe, emptied the milk from the left carefully back into the bottle, put both shoes back on, the gum sealing my itch, and put the rest of the gum into my hair. Mom would have to cut it out, I thought. Scissors.

I spent last night drinking a spirit I make from orange peel under my radiator. There’s vomit on the carpet and there was some in my hair until my shower. I can’t do anything else today.
I have a session with Dr. Spinach tomorrow. She makes my knee twitch. I dreamt about her again last night. In my dream she is not a doctor but a postal worker and she has lost my mail. I’m giving her a hard time and screaming in her face and pointing my finger really close to her nose. In my dream I have two legs and she has three. I’m standing on her desk and pointing down at her and shouting so much that I’m drooling and I have a boner that’s wagging in her direction with every enthusiastic gesticulation. Then I notice the crowd outside on the street. They can see me because I’ve stood on the desk and I realise I’m semi naked in an agitated state. I fall off the desk and before I fall through the gaping hole in the floor that has appeared from nowhere, I grab one of the doctor’s three ankles. That’s when I wake, hanging from her feet.
Tomorrow we’re playing the “I am” game. I have to write down as many endings to a sentence beginning with “I am” as I can in a minute. “I am Matty” “I am sad and lonely” “I am not as good as my brother is”, that sort of thing. Then Dr. Spinach analyses my responses or something and asks me lots of questions. Last time the game ended and I was sent home early when I wrote “I am thinking about my wang” 22 times.
The smell of orange peel is making me sick. I opened the window, but the plastic sheet mom put there to stop me throwing my foulness, as she calls it, at people means that no air gets in, and the caked shit on the inside of the sheet doesn’t help. Yeah, I had to try. Mom has hired professional cleaners to deal with my room after my ten days alone. I should put some clothes on before they get here.
My brother said he’s going to kick my ass for what I’m putting Mom through. Considering that the last time he kicked me I lost my kneecap, maybe we should invest in an ass bolt right now…save time later. I remember him kicking my knee off. I said he wouldn’t make it through boot camp and he lost it. He lashed out with his leg and heavy steel capped boot attached. My kneecap fell off the next day. Dr. Spinach says that is what started my self-defilement. But I was digging in my anus before that.

I get night terrors. I sweat a lot and scream. I leap and jerk and whirl about the room screeching and banging myself. I woke up one morning with a handful of my own pubic hair in my hand. Mom is too frightened to wake me because she saw some show about sleepwalking that said if you wake someone who’s in that state you wipe their mind. Maybe she should try it on me. I kicked her in the elbow one time, which adds to the fear thing. The police were called one night by Mr. Ferguson, but when they saw it was my house they didn’t stop. Later, I found out they are afraid of me. One of them, a born again type, thinks I’m possessed of the devil. Mom covered all the corners of my cabinets and my desk in bubble wrap. She heard that a blow to the temple can cause severe brain damage and is worried I’ll kill myself sleepily or something. I don’t care what she heard, it looked stupid. When I go back to school or whatever I’m going to do, I might get friends back here. They would jeer and boo me. Fuck them. So I took the bubble wrap off when Mom was at Bible Camp. The scab on my head is almost coming off. My mirror is broken. I see my fragmented reflection disfiguring me every morning when I put in my contact lenses. Just my luck. Yesterday, I forgot to soak the lenses in the cleaning stuff. They're dry and dirty. I put them in anyway. Dr. Spinach says I’m really awake and that this is delusional self-harming to cover up my fear. She’s the expert, but I’ve no idea what I see and hear at night when I’m slapping my eyes with the backs of my hands and headbutting my thighs. Must be fucked up though.

Some dreams I do remember. The ones with Dr. Spinach.

Feeling better. Prison wasn’t what I’d expected. Not that I was in a prison as such, this was more like a small cage in the corner of the sheriff’s office. Me and three drunk guys. I was thinking tossed salads and broom handles. But what with the cage and all, there was no privacy for that sort of thing.
They washed me.
Mom’s back. She was mad about Mikey’s eye, which is now bigger that his left one, somehow. She said she was also horribly embarrassed about the whole shitting thing and the “prison” and all that. That I was taken in as a welfare case…a “delinquent, incapable of self-care” rather than a criminal, seemed to make it worse.
They oiled my knee bolt.
Mom refused to shower me. I had to do it myself, but the shower head was glued in place. I think Mom noticed shit on it. I got the step ladder and did it anyway. The metal feet took chunks of enamel out of the shower tray. It’s leaking now. Like Mikey’s eye.
In the cage a man had no pants on. He was very drunk and had shoes and a sock, but no pants. His penis was bigger than mine but crooked and dirty. He was singing something by Christina Aguilera, who I’m looking up on the net after this.
I stole the Sheriff’s mug, which said something about golf on it. I liked the shape of the club. Mom found it and mailed it back. I don’t think she knows what I was using it for.
The man in the cage was singing and he was covering his bits because he really did seem very naked. I got hard, so I sat down. The fat man called me a cunt and face punched me. At least, he tried. He missed and hit my shoulder a bit and the wall a bit. Then he vomited on himself and the naked man and I stood up and they saw my bone. Sorry, the fat man was there too. He was angry at me for no reason and when I sat I sat on his hat and that was that. Besides that fat man there was another man-drunk, but he slept through all of this, which only lasted a few days anyway. Two I think.
When they saw my bone they got afraid and backed away from me. The fat man covered up his fear with his anger and tried to ball-kick me. Then he fell over. He could do with seeing Dr. Spinach too. Dr. Spinach says I cover up my fear with shit throwing and cock washing. She says my Mom involves herself in my delusion because of a reverse oedipal obsessive dyad. Her words not mine. She doesn’t tell me what I’m afraid of, though, which isn’t very helpful. Perhaps she has me confused with someone else?

I haven’t left my room in ten days. I’ve stopped showering. I’m afraid to look in my pants. My fingers are sticking to the keyboard as I type from the jelly donuts I’ve been living on. I’ve begun scratching at a scab on my left hip. Now it too is sticky, and attaches itself to my jeans. I’ve been throwing my shit out the window at the neighbors’ kids. To this end, I’ve been using a nike baseball cap as a makeshift sling. My mom’s been at bible camp for the last ten days. Due back in four. When the police came after a complaint from the neighbors about the shit (Mikey caught some in the eye and has all sorts of problems now) I threw shit at them too. That was today. Just now. I think I’m in trouble. I’m going to go wash my hand. Maybe my hip too.

I woke up early this morning with my duvet stuck to my belly. My face was wet and salty with the tears I shed when I wake up in this state. My leg hurt again and my knee was bent 32 degrees in the wrong direction. On the computer screen flickering in the morning haze was a picture of a man defiling himself before a smokey mirror. He was smiling, but it seemed a snarl to me. I tried to dissolve aspirin in my cold coffee. It didn't work but I used the solution to wash my torso. The sperm stains on my own self became luminous and lit up my room, kinda like that scene in Seven where they have the black lights looking for the finger prints. I get hard when I think of Morgan freeman, but I dont tell my Mom that. I had a shower again, my leg out the side, but my Mom was washing my sheets so I cock washed my own assneck and inserted the shower head into my anus. I don't know why I did that. I've never had a enema before. I'll do it again.

I always feel better after a good shower. I hang my leg out of the side to prevent rust, while my Mom cock washes my assneck

Today my knee jerked again. It always does that after I masturbate. God I miss my brother.