Tell your abs to go away. With gumption. If they stay, you know they are true friends. If they go, fuck them, they are exactly the type you didn’t want in your life in the first place.
Put on some music to impress yourself, remember: you’re one sexy kitten. Preferably something that calls to mind impressions of a smoky jazz club in the 20’s, or a romantic kung-fu movie. Begin to time your thoughts to the sultry tempo of the music. If it isn’t sultry, you’re doing it wrong.
Disparage your dominant hand. It will always know you love it, but your subdominant hand needs to feel like you are on its side once in a while. Not only should pamper your sub a couple of times a week, but embarrassing your dominant hand in front of guests gets your sub hand all aflutter.
Spill your belly into the open space. Make a noise that makes you feel like you are becoming one of your parents, and take pride in your idiosyncratic genetic heritage.
Even if your parents were shit, that noise was probably made by grand and grander parents. These distant creatures may have done incredible things you have never been made aware of. (If you are absolutely sure that your ancestry is 100% trash, duct tape your mouth for one week while fasting. Leave a hole for the water-straw. After one week, remove the tape and speak in a different accent forever.)
Sit on your least favorite couch and utter to your chest “I have to draw you.” This hot scene should only diverge from the movie in that you are using paint and you are both the canvas and subject. Once you are the color(s) of your choice, wiggle. A little.
Are the candles lit? Light the candles.
Ask yourself, “What is your favorite breakfast?” Don’t assume you already know. Before, you were asking your abs what their favorite breakfast was. You were asking your memories of your hot or cruel childhood friends. You were asking your brother or sister who told you only cowboys ate so many scrambled eggs. This time you have to ask yourself. Whatever your self says, remember: the customer is always right.
Collect the ingredients and ready them for the morning. Wake yourself up with them, enjoy them in bed, and don’t even clean up until the next day.
Call an enemy from an unknown number and tell them in a disguised voice exactly what you think of them. Hang up, and destroy the past with laughter.
You are just like everyone else. You have a total fucking crush on hope. So whisper sweet somethings into your ear that make you horny at the thought of the future. “You are gonna be so fucking rich, you genius.” “I’m gonna move to cuba. I’m gonna order a drink at the bar and let some of the more deserving sand just keep sticking to my legs.
I’m gonna put my feet up, lay down on the table the aged journal I just bought because it looks so cool, and genius the fuck out. From that little nook in the world, my domination will begin.” “You’ll never have to worry about your freckles again.”
Now decked in your favorite color, don the outfit you would like to be wearing the day you die. Then take your secret-agent-ass out on the town. Even if it isn’t true, imagine that all the people on the street are nervous to talk to you because you are so damn sexy. Don’t disappoint them. If you don’t find them worthy, attack them with your eyes or whatever force is eager to be marshaled against your puny foe. If, however, they are your true destiny, begin courtship. Take delight in their ignorance: they have no idea they have just begun their final and most rapturous adventure.
Make them laugh. Make them cry. Give them nothing. Send them home with nothing, except the possibility that maybe you will text them ‘hey’ if you feel like it. Do not wave in the rain. Do not chase the car.
When you are alone again, remind your feet that they are not forgotten. Pet them.
Punch the left one because you know he/she can take it. He/She can. He/She likes to prove it. Pour hot wax onto the tops (not the bottoms), and keep the caste forever in the freezer with the label “Crowns of the Sacrifice.” Whenever your feet are cold or sullen, dress them up in full royal regalia and sit perfectly still until you know the moment is right. There should be absolutely nothing “Zen” about this.
Take off any wings you may have put on throughout the course of the evening. Lock them up in a place they will not escape from. Take stock of your nerves. You should be tired.
Light a cigarette and enter the shower. As the color is drained from your spent canvas, feel the peace and pity that follows the ultimate experience. Mitigate your disappointment with the knowledge that you will relive this day again tomorrow, or whenever it is that you have the courage to stop fronting.
Run your cigarette under the water when you are done, and drop its sopping body into the waist-bin. Towel off. You’re finished.