Story of the Modern Man after the Accident that is now His Life

by Jefferson Navicky

I’ve cussed myself into a concussion, and I can no longer speak, only write the dumbest words, like ‘frog” and “cup” and “fart” and “butt.”  That will have to do in my addled brain.

In fact, my stupid brain likes being stupid.  It feels good.  I just think about sex and food all day and then it’s time to poop and sleep.  Sometimes I watch Netflix.  I no longer care about beer or gardening or cars.  All that’s even stupider than me.  Than I.  Than me am.  Than socks that I don’t want.  Than emoticons.  Than bosses who are dickheads.  You’re not the boss of me; my concussion is my boss.  It makes me lie.  In a good way.  Fuck this shit.  Step off.  I’m heading into the New Millennium of my Brain. At the tail end of it — I can already see it now — is my dead self wrapped up in a ball, puttering away, doing the same shit I’ve always done, only happy to be doing it, finally, for the last time, and laughing my ass off.