Creamy Bullets Read Online Free PDF Page B

smooth it out.
    I was asleep, I said. I can’t control what I do when I’m sleeping.

Writer’s Block Theme Song
    H er small house is made with bricks. In the front room everything is of equal importance. Every object, pumping with electricity. Her computer is staring at her. Her television is on but the volume is low. Her clocks drone away and her books are left open, hanging in mid-sentence. She knows that if she doesn’t go to bed soon she will be up until the morning and then she will have to sleep all day. She thinks about the effect this will have on her later in the week.
    When she was a man she would sleep all the time and that is why she is a woman now. If she goes to bed now she will be able to wake up at a decent hour and then turn on all her things again.
    She struggles with loneliness. You don’t need to be told that. Just look at her, sitting there. She glances at the television from time to time, hoping that something grabs her attention, and when something finally does she feels empty inside.
    The world is so big, she thinks. It seems to keep expanding the more and more she stays inside. She feels insignificant if she can’t write, if she can’t fill her computer screen with words.
    When she is able to write, the world becomes smaller with each word, each page. Her chair fits her body better, her legs, her back, her skin, all of her that is not male. But only sometimes.
    Her suspicious history contains these facts: She has written one hundred poems and kept eight or nine of them. She once wrote a 200-page book that was published by a university press. It was about airplane catastrophes. That was eight years ago, when she first became a woman. She wrote the book when she was a man but couldn’t get it published. She wonders now what captivated her to write such a book. She had a brief stint at a bad local magazine as an assistant editor. She quit because she heard someone making fun of the magazine at a restaurant. The people at her neighborhood bookstore keep forgetting her name.
    She goes into the kitchen. Her freezer is full of food that keeps falling out on her toes. She makes toast with peanut butter. She eats all of it except the top crust. She puts music on the stereo and puts the television on mute. She picks up a book and reads half of a page. She decides to let the music put her to sleep and try again tomorrow.

Jailbreaker
    I know everything there is to know about getting into jail. Trust me. This is going to hurt me more than it hurts me.
    It started with the parking citation. I just went into the store for a second. A loaf of bread and one of those new Snickers bars. Five seconds tops. When I get back out the ink is still wet on the ticket as it flaps under my windshield wiper. I look around and spot the bastard getting into his parking enforcement buggy. The kind that looks like a fucking golfing cart gave birth to a dwarf. It’s got three wheels and a sign that says DO NOT FOLLOW, like you’d ever want to. He sees me coming and tries to get away by making a right turn at the corner. I get a good running start and drill him like vintage Lawrence Taylor. Piece of shit flips over like a bike messenger. I kick his midget wheels and smash his little walkie talkie. Then I go to jail.
    They dress me up in some orange jumpsuit and trot me out in front of the judge so he can stare at me over his bifocals and mutter some law school psychobabble.
    They let me call my cousin Randy before they throw me in the cell. Randy’s not there so I try to leave a message before getting cut off. Piece of shit machine. He thinks he saves twenty bucks a month with that thing. Only assholes think shit like that.
    When I get to see my view behind the bars at the Strom Thurmond Correctional Prison, I make the acquaintance of my cellmate, a wannabe rapper named Derelikt. He’s up in my grill about his hood and how I’m not welcome to buy a Hostess Fruit Pie at his Uncle’s convenient store. His orange gear has