HOME | DD

Description
I sat on a stranger’s bed, the cheap, burgundy colored comforter with patterns shaped like a regal hotel logo, the comforter that is only used when people like me come around, staring at the ground as the consumer in front of me undressed me with their mind.

“Think of it as if you’re a model. They’re taking pictures; just look good,” Daniel would tell me. Look good and destroyed.
Click.
You don’t have to smile.
Click.
You don’t have to talk.
Click.
You don’t have to breathe.

And all of these nameless people that run into you at night, you’re their client. With benefits.

You don’t even have to pretend to be ready. Because the more ruined you are, the more they want you. Ruining something beautiful, it’s addicting to these kinds of people.

Think of it as if you’re a model.
Click.
You don’t have to live.
Go away somewhere. Come back when I’m done.

I thought of Daniel, my mentor. His father had solicited him since age 10. He was a philosopher, a scholar, and a prostitute. Maybe I look weak or naïve, but he took me under his proverbial wing.

Those old scholars and psychologists, those washed-out English teachers you see on TV, he’d explain, they defined the Heroes of mythology as those who gave themselves to others.

“So really,” he’d say, “I’m a Hero.”

He’d tell me about how, if you knew where to look, you’d find a gun in any one of our ‘photographer’s’ rooms. It’s always in the same place.

So what you do is, you wait until they’re asleep and look in the drawer of the end table. The one where the lamp is. Now take the gun into the nearest of the five bathrooms and look at yourself in the mirror. You with a gun. Listen to the screeching in your head, like violins in a tense piece-like your own theme music. Now put the gun in your mouth ad close your eyes.

Think of it as if you’re a monster.
You don’t even have to care that they’ll have you to clean up all morning, before the spouse shows up.
You don’t even have to think.
Click.

Description
I sat on a stranger’s bed, the cheap, burgundy colored comforter with patterns shaped like a regal hotel logo, the comforter that is only used when people like me come around, staring at the ground as the consumer in front of me undressed me with their mind.

“Think of it as if you’re a model. They’re taking pictures; just look good,” Daniel would tell me. Look good and destroyed.
Click.
You don’t have to smile.
Click.
You don’t have to talk.
Click.
You don’t have to breathe.

And all of these nameless people that run into you at night, you’re their client. With benefits.

You don’t even have to pretend to be ready. Because the more ruined you are, the more they want you. Ruining something beautiful, it’s addicting to these kinds of people.

Think of it as if you’re a model.
Click.
You don’t have to live.
Go away somewhere. Come back when I’m done.

I thought of Daniel, my mentor. His father had solicited him since age 10. He was a philosopher, a scholar, and a prostitute. Maybe I look weak or naïve, but he took me under his proverbial wing.

Those old scholars and psychologists, those washed-out English teachers you see on TV, he’d explain, they defined the Heroes of mythology as those who gave themselves to others.

“So really,” he’d say, “I’m a Hero.”

He’d tell me about how, if you knew where to look, you’d find a gun in any one of our ‘photographer’s’ rooms. It’s always in the same place.

So what you do is, you wait until they’re asleep and look in the drawer of the end table. The one where the lamp is. Now take the gun into the nearest of the five bathrooms and look at yourself in the mirror. You with a gun. Listen to the screeching in your head, like violins in a tense piece-like your own theme music. Now put the gun in your mouth ad close your eyes.

Think of it as if you’re a monster.
You don’t even have to care that they’ll have you to clean up all morning, before the spouse shows up.
You don’t even have to think.
Click.