Stephen Fellner

We became bored by that old stand-by game “Fuck, Marry, Kill.”

P always choose Marry. I always choose Kill.

This is why we’re married: one of us believes in mercy. I don’t know who.

This isn’t the sort of game one should play. It’s politically incorrect, especially during a pandemic. Did we not have any restraint? P finally said, Leave me alone. You’re fucked up. Go call one of your friends.

I sulked in my room. After an hour or so, P said, Do you want to watch a Turner Classic movie?

No, I said, Turner Classic movies are for privileged jerks.

P likes to watch black and white movies. Sometimes as he’s watching one, I think about how much I despise him. Why can’t he watch Netflix like every other asshole.

I go upstairs and search the web for photos of protestors who want to open up the country. I pull down my pants and decide that once I find a cute moron, I’ll masturbate. It’s hard to find a hot one though. They are always there with their mouths wide open. Slobbering. You could tell they would give the worst blow jobs.

Not that it matters much. Everyone looks pretty gross if you look at them long enough. I fetishize guys’ chests. I guess it’s because I wasn’t breast fed. Fucked me up. You can tell all those protestors have man boobs. Disgusting.

I have man boobs, but that doesn’t matter. My body isn’t all over the Internet.

I look for my high school yearbook and wonder how many of my classmates lusted after me. How many still do. My guess: a lot. I think even back then I had man boobs. No one cared though back then. Or maybe they did. I don’t remember. I hate when people say they didn’t like high school. I loved high school. It was the best time of my life. Even with the depression, homophobia, parents’ divorce, Etc. Etc.

But hey! It wasn’t like you were afraid that breathing in someone’s nasty air was going to kill you. The Good Old Fucking Days.

I decide I’ll play Marry, Fuck, Kill with the people I see in my high school yearbook. By myself. But then I stop. How many of them are already dead. How many of them will be dead after this tragedy. How many of them thought they would live to the next reunion I never planned to go to.

I look at the photo of the guy I loved the most who never loved me back. He let me jerk him off though. More than once. Small miracles.

But now I’m old. Now I have eyelid skin tags. Even if I wasn’t so fucking lazy, I couldn’t get rid of them. No doctor is going to want to kill himself over my vanity.

To a degree, isn’t this what, in part, it’s all about: vanity. Showing people how good we look even when we’ve been locked down in our house and don’t even try any more. Or on the other side of things: those protestors. They need to be seen. The world demands their presence they think. What else can they do, but offer themselves. Even if it means offing themselves as well? Are they heroes.

How many of us, after all this, are going to be alive to fuck or still get married or killed by something as pleasant as a car accident or falling down a well.

In a way, I don’t care. It’s like, Whatever. But not too much whatever. I need options. I will be able to choose. I will have some options. The game of life won’t shut down. Or not completely. Marry, fuck, or kill. Marry, fuck or kill.

Say it one more time with me.