Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

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I Think I’ve Been Pregnant For Years

Uncertainty and anxiety fester. My mind’s racing over the potential duties and doodys I’d be responsible for as a parent. I don’t know how this could’ve happened; I never hot tub naked with others and I’m always vigilant to wipe off seats in all public toilets no matter what country I’m in.

I should just man up and take the pregnancy test but, alas, I can’t. A truth-shrapnel-heavy bombshell could provide a definitive answer but could also eradicate what remains of the sweet delusional bliss I’ve been clinging to. I suppose I’m only deceiving myself, though. The writing’s been on the wall—any idiot could tell you that missing your period for this many months, my entire life in fact, likely means I’ve been totes preggers for at least a few years now.

The proof has accumulated steadily over time. Suspicions first began when my appetite surged to a level of routine gluttony. Gone were the days of being satiated by a paltry six-piece McNugget and medium fry. No, now a ravenous, adult-onset-diabetes-inducing hunger coursed throughout me. Orders of family-sized McNugget cartons and vats of McFlurry paired with near-violent, manager-directed diatribes to restore the Supersize option had become my new normal.

Blame boredom. Blame delicious salt. Blame Netflix. No matter your angle, I’m gorging for at least two now. It doesn’t matter where we are or what we we’re doing, much like a dumpy girl on Prom Night unsuccessfully parting with her virginity and subsequently eating her feelings, I’m getting filled one way or another.

My weight, much like the pregnancy evidence, soon began aggressively accruing. This non-sexual girth first appeared in my ankles. These once-slim beauties, my sexiest feature according to my nineteenth-century Englishmen friends, ballooned into varicose-vein-riddled stumps that branched off into a pair of equally-swollen feet like I was just another patron in a Midwestern strip mall.

Missing periods, being obnoxiously cankled, living in a constant state of food lust: the proof was in the Snack Packs.

Not long after I’d exiled my skinny jeans and sexy underwear to the back of the closet, a sore-nipple epidemic broke out in my life. Maybe it was just that I was distracted with the potential looming pregnancy or maybe I just wasn’t as quick on my cankles now, but the fellow passengers on my morning commute took full advantage. Once upon a time I’d had the quickest pair of hands and the slipperiest pair of nips on the bus; but, lately, the culture of rampant titty-twisting has left me perpetually surrendering window seats in order to stop my nurples from becoming any more raw and purpled.

Mood swings have now crept their way into daily life. I caught an errant whiff of garlic-stuffed olives yesterday and couldn’t shake the craving. When I couldn’t find them in the grocery store I panicked, collapsing on the tile floor in a ball of tears. Perspective completely gone, I latched onto a clerk, pleading that he find the olives for me, but he scurried away, probably rushing off to help a hotter, trimmer, not-possibly-pregnant person.

Magic Eight Ball, you were right; the signs all do point to yes.

Fine, I’ll be the man and do it; I’ll take the pregnancy test and finally know for sure if I’m carrying little Obi-Wan McFly Gawel in my tummy after all.

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Autoerotic Fiction

The sun was high in the sky on this bright summer Saturday morning.  Fresh from his night of slumber, John opened one eye and took a glance around the room before reading his clock radio.

 

Eleven-twenty: too late to salvage the morning, yet too early to start any afternoon activities.  Rested, John sat up and pulled back his sheets pondering his next course of action.  He wasn’t hungry, and his only plans for the day weren’t until five; his options were endless really.  He considered setting up a doctor appointment for the rash on his arm, but he decided it maybe just needed a few more days.

 

John supposed he could go to the bank, not to deposit money or transact—he just liked hanging out at the bank.  Nah, he didn’t want to do that, I mean, come on, he already has his pants off.  Deliberation set in about a potential trip to the grocery store but John ultimately decided against it; he already had all the provisions he needed for his one-man nacho fiesta that was happening at five o’clock.

 

He lied back down on his bed and nestled into the groove his crooked spine had established in the mattress over its many moons of use.  The groove provided him a small canyon that he allowed himself to cozy into night after night, a canyon that became particularly difficult to scale out of after a restless night.  His eyes drooped a little and he let out a small yawn; he supposed he could read.

 

A stretch across the mattress and John snagged the screenplay he was working on editing the night before.  He was at page sixteen, and the last few days have been far from productive, but he figured if he can get some good, hard work done now he can gorge on a trough of nachos later completely guilt free.  Guilt-free about being productive at least, after all, there is a considerable amount of self-loathing that goes along with any personal nacho fiesta.

 

He starts down the page and begins marking with his red pen.  Embarrassed, he circles his your-you’re confusion and laments that he can’t remember why he thought Thomas Merriweather Rockefeller was a good name for any character, let alone the main one.  Self-Hating Saturday had already started and John hadn’t even binged on nachos, been to church, or spoke to his parents yet.

 

John’s conscious mind continued editing while his unconscious mind let his left hand wander.   His left hand blazed a trail through the maze of skin, blanket, and underwear and popped in at John’s junk as if to say, “Good morning, beautiful; you feel like dancing?”

 

With just a splinter of morning wood remaining, John’s left hand realized he was going to have to do most of the work rousing this sleeping giant, but hey, you can’t start a fire without a spark—but a lot of wood would certainly help.

 

John’s conscious mind snapped into it; he knew how he could pass the time—the answer had been literally right in front of him.  His attention shifted and he was soon only skimming through his bad symbolism and unnatural dialogue.  Suddenly, he realized that he was playing with himself while reading.  He now could identify with the way hipster kids feel when they read Catcher in the Rye or how Glen Beck feels when he’s proofreading his own books.  Disgusted with either of those groups, John emphatically hurled his first draft across the room.

 

His eyelids close and his mouth opens ever so slightly; his right hand begins to work his joystick like he’s going for the high score in the video game that is himself.  His mind flashed to that girl from senior year of high school.  Not her as a person, like her accomplishments and what not, more so just her pink lips sucking on his thing with such force you’d think she had a jet engine for a mouth—John’s strokes sped up and his body tensed.  In his mind she smiled quickly and John immediately remembers her missing tooth and shuddered a bit.  Immediately, she faded from mind.

 

Back to the highlight reel and John’s mind jumped to a hazy, post-bar memory.  He recalled this sexual encounter being like a slip and slide—it had been a particularly muggy summer and that particular girl’s vagina acted like it.  So wet and smooth he recalled, as his hand now was taking the most thorough, caressing touch to his wang.  He felt himself begin to lose control, slightly, as he reminisced; his hand bouncing up and down on his throbbing member like it was a piston in some well-oiled flesh engine.  Suddenly he stopped, it was only now twenty-five after eleven; John still had a ways to go until five, so he decided to make this last.

 

John took a few strokes off in order to prevent culmination, but now he realized that he’s got to kick-start the old love machine as the realization set in that his hiatus had been too long and he should never interrupted the diligent work routine he had established.  “If only I put this kind of effort and craftsmanship into my screenplays,” he though, but alas, that thought faded away in lieu of a sexual fantasy involving the cashier at the corner gas station.

 

It’s just an average night, John’s buying his usual pack of cigarettes and three candy bars.  John then removes his card from his wallet, preparing to swipe it on the machine.  But, when he goes to run it through the machine, John finds the machine has been replaced with a, now naked, cashier girl.  He swipes his Red Lobster Visa down her ass crack as she peeks over at him and whispers, “credit or debit, big boy?”  She turns to face him and grabs all she can of him.  John, now paralyzed by his own erotic pleasure, clenches every muscle in his body as he tries to hit his figurative brakes.

 

Just like the guy who shows up drunk to an AA meeting—John can’t stop and he knows it.  No use trying to derail this train.  John tightens his grip—his hot rod turning that deep fuchsia color indicating the pleasure express was right on time.  He mind drifts back to the gas station and he’s thrusting into cashier girl.  He’s loving every bit of this as he looks into the mirror behind the counter to fully appreciate this moment, but right then he realizes that it isn’t a reflection of him having his way with the cashier girl in the mirror, why it’s just him having his way with a very sweaty Louie Anderson.  John begins to climax as he feels the white-hot man yogurt drip down the back of his hand.  His mind is racing with a lot of confused feelings about his sexuality and Louie Anderson.  He wipes his hand on the sheets and curls up in a ball—looks like Self-Hating Saturday is off to a great start!

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