Wednesday, October 26, 2005

One more day like today and I’ll kill you

The best thing about being a sex bomb is that I can get away with anything. I can insult anybody, reveal any dark secret, it doesn’t matter. Nothing I say needs to make any sense, not even to myself. I am a walking, living god of the forbidden, and I will write whatever the hell I want to. It is like the freedom of a pseudonym, but without the cowardice that comes with it. My perfect body is my nom de guerre. Let me tell you a true story: In the early nineties I dropped out of college to pursue a career as a nobody. I worked for a time as a stage technician in an experimental theater, around a bunch of fashionably depressive people who dressed in black and listened to suicide pop. Even then, over ten years ago, it was already getting old. Me and one of the others were picking up something from the train station; I can't remember what it was but it was an hour late. We decided to go for coffee at a nearby café. It was early in the morning and only two other guys were there. One of them I’d seen around, a schizophrenic painter, in and out of institutions but critically acclaimed. The other was a skinny guy with green teeth, clearly an amphetamine user, what we used to call a speed freak. It’s probably not the trendiest term anymore. They were telling bog stories, each trying to top the other, and we couldn’t help listening in. The painter described how he had once discovered that his apartment was bugged by the government. They used the electrical system, got in through the power outlets. He had to plug all the holes. Then he understood that the appliances were bugged too. In fact, every electrical device in the apartment served as a microphone. He had to get rid of them: Refrigerator, washer and dryer, toaster, hand mixer, shaver, TV, stereo and speakers, all the lamps, the walkman, the calculator, his watch and clock radio, every piece of wire, every battery. They had to go. So what did he do? He sold them to his downstairs neighbor for 200 reichmärck. That’s nothing, said the speed freak. Once, I was coming down from two weeks of partying. I didn’t have any more, I couldn’t get any more and my body wouldn’t take any more. I had postponed the dreaded moment for as long as possible, but now I simply had to sleep. I lay in my bed, coming down like a burning airplane. I tossed and turned, sweating the rest of it out until my sheets were like dishwater. At one point I was sure I was going to die. In that moment a light appeared at the foot of the bed, and a bright figure stepped toward me, clad in a shroud. I saw that it was Jesus Christ the Redeemer, the true son of God, his arms outstretched so that the wounds on his hands were clearly visible. He looked upon me with infinite compassion, and then he said: Ronny, you have to stop masturbating so often.



Anonymous børvfissen said...

Jesus tells me that everyday. Go with Jesus! GO WITH JESUS! JESUS IS HERE! HALLELU. HALLELU. (no, that's not a typo)

12:08 pm  
Blogger Mikkel said...

Sa jeg halve? HELE luja!

1:28 pm  
Blogger MGL said...


11:04 pm  
Anonymous børvisen said...

hele jula

12:14 pm  
Anonymous adam said...

I wish I were a sex bomb

8:57 pm  
Blogger Mikkel said...

It's not all it's cracked up to be, believe me. I kinda miss being the clever one.

11:05 pm  

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