Blockbuster
My vein, so delicately bluish-green, splits open so easily, with but a single touch of a razor. And out of it, equally delicately, comes a slow-spreading trickle of red. Viscous, almost frozen, the red spreads. Like molasses on a chilly autumn day.
The truth, here, is discursive, not literal.
That reminds me of a story once told by Harland Williams to a group of people assembled somewhere east of here, a story that takes place on a chilly autumn day, when he was sitting at home; and just as he – making himself comfortable on his old, worn-out couch in front of his old television set – just as he slit his vein with an old-fashioned razor blade, so shiny and new, just as blood started to pour out of him, slow like molasses on a chilly autumn day, he noticed some movies he had forgotten to return to the video store. What a bummer.
Sew sew sew. Quickly, before both the big and the little arm are on twelve. Or else: late fees.
Life, at times, is nothing but avoidance of late fees.
