Ben John Smith

by Horror Sleaze Trash on November 25, 2013

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I will be posting a few excerpts form my joint collection of flash fiction and poetry me and Mr Catfish McDaris compiled a few years ago, the hard cover book is still available to buy here and is on good reads here.

~Ben John Smith.

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A Complete Waste of Words Because You Will Think I’m Just Being Gnarly

When I was on my way to my first backyard party I expected it to be like what I saw on the Hollywood films. Red cups with white lips. A big DJ with lights behind him, nude chicks kissing each other under fountains of Don Perion. Well it’s not exactly what I imagined, but I expected more than I got. I got vomit on the carpet. That’s what I got. Beer in a bathtub filled with ice and a fire in a 44-gallon drum. I was naive, and that’s not a crime. It’s naive, but it’s not ridiculous. I remember that night I spent a good majority of the party talking to a crying, drunk, chick and smoking all her cigarettes. Her name is unimportant, but it’s important to let you know since then, she has fucked everyone I know, and a million people I don’t.

Now I know parties are going to be shit. I know I will end up drunk or stoned and dribbling pre-rehearsed lines about the universe and god, like I’m some kind of secret keeper. And people will sit there and smile at me like I did with that drunk whore. Pretending to listen. Being kind enough not to hurt my feelings. I usually avoid arguments by pretending to see the other side of things. I avoid arguments with friends because I’m a pussy. I don’t like confrontation. I don’t trust myself. I’m like that pie baking bitch in Mean Girls, but more smelly and drunk. I usually smell like piss because I don’t shake my knob properly after I take a piss. I spend a lot of time in the bathroom. Or going to it. At parties that’s what I do. Drink, talk shit, go to the toilet, rinse and then repeat

Tonight I had a gathering at my joint. I bagged some air freshener in the toilet. Well not really bagged it, but just slightly depressed the nozzle and sprayed it into my face. Inhaling the vapor through my nose. I thought about Marilyn Manson on the cover of Mechanical Animals. For the next few minutes I holed up in the bathroom with a slight head spin and some television static bouncing around in my eyes. I walked outside and busted my eye open on the corner of the door.

Someone’s mum told me a really long-winded story and I asked a dumb question that showed my disinterest. Something totally irrelevant to her tale. She asks me if I had heard a word she just said. I be honest and say no. No, Not really. I’m sorry I’m a little drunk and I’m very, very tired.
All I really want is for some one to tell me I’m beautiful and interesting and cool. I want to be cool. I want you to say, hey Ben, you’re cool! And I will live in that delusion and get drunk and laugh and think everything is funny. I mean, I’m only alive for a little while, you know, so what’s the difference. Ignorance is perfect. I can be that stupid, I promise. I can be totally retarded if it needed. Grimy retarded, even. The most basic mother fucker you will ever meet.

Please tell me I’m beautiful, please? Please call me baby. Dress me up like a woman and slap me around if that’s what its come to. It’s what I deserve and I’m too much of a coward to tell the authorities. Let’s have a party and tell stupid stories and I’ll pretend I’m listening. You can too. Reading, reading; reading along. Or not reading, you know, it’s cool; I don’t want to argue about it.

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