The jar remains unopened. I know what’s inside it, and what’s inside it is only mayonnaise, but nothing is scarier than this jar. I stare at it. It stares at me. It has no eyes but I am certain that it stares. It has no mouth, but I know it is laughing. All I can hear around me is the absence of music, the quiet of the suspicious laughter space. I will wake up, then I will go to sleep and see it again and I know it will remain unopened.
It was an endearing spectacle when the little boy next door decided to commit his beloved goldfish to the Earth. He proudly, solemnly went out to the front yard with his prayer book and his shoebox. I gave him five dollars for the dead fish, which he eagerly accepted. I fried it up and it filled with relief and satisfaction as I ate it.
“That’s the nature of love,” I said to the fish.
I went to the videostore and rented Fantasia. I don’t know what possessed me to ask the clerk. “are you any realer than this? I need something less real than you are.” He didn’t know what to say, as he had clearly dismissed me as some nut. I waited at the Wendy’s next door until he got out and then I followed him home and watched with a pair of binoculars while he sat up awake all night.
At my favorite bar, I ran into Kitty Genovese and Superman. “One of you has to be dead,” I told them and moderated the debate until one of them came out looking more selfish. I’m not usually like this.
Last night I grabbed the jar and opened it. Inside was no mayonnaise, but instead an emptier, scarier jar.
As I tie this noose made of pay stubs, phone bills and love poems, I give you this warning: you should never fuck a philosopher unprotected .There is something to fill every hole.