fructose can suck my dick

The whole word is one big oyster or whatever it is they say. I agree on the basis that it reeks real bad, but sometimes you find pearls hidden in nasty smelling gunk. Maybe you’re looking for ‘em, or maybe you’re at a seafood place slugging down raw oysters and choke on that pearl, cough it up onto your plate and stare at it for a while wondering if it’s for real. Then the waiters congratulate you as though you didn’t almost die or- hm. I think the metaphor got away from me. Lmao.

There’s little pearls like that everywhere if you look, as long as you see ‘em that way. Unfortunately, my pearls are not everyone else’s, not by a long shot. Nor am I a pearl to anyone but one guy. No one fucking likes me and I should be okay with that.

I really should be okay with that, because I don’t do anything but be myself. And if the conclusion to that is that people don’t like me much, then that should just be it, if I’m so unapologetically me.

Sometimes I think I should be apologetic. Like, you know, “sorry for being a gross smelly lizard creature who eats out of the garbage and bites people, are we cool” or something like that. I think sometimes people are waiting for an apology for being alive.

I don’t owe them that. Mom tells me that all the time. Tells me I don’t owe anyone dick for existing, but I can feel peoples eyes on me, watching me run around behaving in ways they don’t want when all I’m doing is having fun.

Eyes are always on me, even when they can’t see me.

Sometimes I envy Chanel. He doesn’t know who his dead parent is. He doesn’t have that hanging over his head like a bad smell the way I do.

The internet is a thing. I’ve looked up my dead dad on search engines and in articles and in old forums from like 2012. Articles about the disappearance and presumed death of a guy named Sports Maxx that I’ve never met. A guy whose blood runs through my veins like a disease I never asked for. It was like that ding dong the witch is dead scene in Wizard of Oz or something.

“Glad he’s finally dead lol”. “Thank God for watching over us and keeping us safe”.

One message stood out to me and it’s haunted me every fucking day since:

“I’m so glad he never reproduced. Whatever could have come of that monster should have been dashed against stones like the Bible to remove that tainted blood.”

That shit made my own blood run cold. Someone who doesn’t even know me wishing I was dead just because of who my father was. My father that I’ve never even met, who I never agreed to be born from.

I don’t let a lot bother me, but the day I saw that it unlocked a new horrible insecurity I didn’t know I had. It ate at me like acid. I questioned myself and my existence where I never had before. Even though it’s not like me at all, I still do.

No one knows about it. I refuse to tell anyone, and the only person who’s even dragged a little of it out of me is Dege. He’s the only one who gets to know because I know he won’t throw it in my face or hold it over my head. He’s great! He’s… always been great. To me, anyway. I know people talk about him, say some rude shit about him, but that’s like… their own stupid preconceived crap. He’s had a hard time. Harder than I have.

There’s a lot of people who have it harder than me. It’s fuckin’ frustrating because I know what I feel and maybe I shouldn’t feel it! Dege has it worse than me, his stepmom has it worse than me, Chanel, Dior, Bulgari, I could go on and on forever until I get to me on the cosmic list of People Who Have It Bad.

Sometimes I sit here and think, I can’t be anything but me. I refuse to change how I am for other people. So why don’t I just die? Y’know? No one’s knowingly clamoring for it or anything, but I can’t take my blood out of me and wash it of that guy’s dna or anything. I’m stuck with that. I’m an affront to God or whatever that one jackass on the internet said I’d be if I existed, and unfortunately I do!

And Fendi? My direct brother with the same problem? He almost wears it like a badge of honor. He looks just like Sports Maxx, and acts just like him apparently, almost like he’s leaning into it. Fendi never knew him! It’s like it just… came out of him. Like it was meant to happen. Like he inherited the ability to be a horrible fucking person who cons naive people out of their money and sells them shitbox beater cars that barely start.

Am I like that? Am I gonna be that? Or do I already maybe look like that to other people…? Can they smell criminal on me?

To people who don’t know me, I’m a weird looking obnoxious lizard freak. To people who do, I’m probably just the son of a freak and a criminal. I’m nothing to write home about unless home is one of those oddity museums with the two headed snakes or whatever. I don’t even know how my family actually feels about me. Even McQueen, who hugs me and tells me I’m just fine, but he does that to everyone. I’m sure he sees what lies beneath like I’m the Atlantic Fucking Ocean and Jaws is lurking below ready to eat some overconfident dickhead in a speedo. Maybe I’m not fooling anyone, even though I’m not trying to.

I can’t feel bad about any of it. I didn’t have the decency to die before birth, so I just have to bear this stupid weight and pretend like it doesn’t bother me. I have to handle things because I’m unflappable and eat glue. Nothing bothers Prada, he’s so hard to shake so let him handle the scarier stuff! Laurent is too fragile, right? Chanel is naive, yeah? Hasn’t Dior been through enough? And mom and my dads went through hell years ago, losing people they loved and almost losing their lives. And Dege…

I can’t afford to be self conscious or ashamed.