Sometimes I Want to Crawl Into a Hole

Sometimes I want to crawl into a hole and die. A hole filled with my family and friends, and a fleshlight, and Birthday Cake Oreos, and the hole is adorned with all the hats Jason Statham ever wore in every role. I'm on a sleek green leather La-Z-Boy with a liquid IV of Mt. Dew Code Red shooting directly into my elbow vein, and the couch has jet fuel inside and can levitate at the push of a button, and there's a racing style seatbelt of course. The launch button is of course next to the morphine-style soda pump that keeps me on edge and I can fly out of that hole anytime I want to like a fetus fleeing my mother's womb.

In front of me will be a projection screen with a playlist of all the newest greatest shit, and classic Simpsons, that I'll watch next to my imaginary son, and on my lap will sit the cat I always wanted but was denied over my sister's allergies. And the playlist might too contain the TrueLifeHD video of all my good memories, all 5 clips, like the romantic night I saw a shooting star with my female friend after dirtying her honor in a public park restroom.

And in this hole there will be great optimism and life. There will be a disco ball that ejects from the wall but its spring mechanism is broken, a dance floor that lights up upon touch but only if you have a soul, a kissing booth operated by Rita Hayworth who happens to be a corpse, a deflated beach ball and a love tester machine that always hits Cold Fish or Try Again. To the left of this hole, this abyss, is a Subway where I can always eat fresh. The Sub of the Month is always chicken and bacon and avocado and it's served to me by Rambo but instead of food utensils he uses modified weapons like a tommygun that shoots black olives, and his patented 10" hunting blade to dice onions.

My chair's also got a toilet dead center and the lids are made of solid gold, and inside it has professional class noise foam to quiet the acoustics so I may shit while conversing intellectually with my buddies. Mostly though, in my hole I would just think. Think you're still at a better time and place. Think of all the times honesty was the wrong choice. Think in third person. Think how easy it is to feel forgotten when you exhibit attributes less than Perfect. The floor of my hole's littered with confetti, the oxygen has gone toxic with optimism, and the stone walls conjure daydreams of shorthaired teens who seduce you with sockpuppets.