I Live in Glass 𝑏𝑦 anonymous

I Live in Glass 𝑏𝑦 anonymous

Glass is an 18-story luxury condominium with 360 degree views located in the sizzling South of Fifth neighborhood of Miami Beach. The oceanfront high-rise features floor-to-ceiling glass walls that integrate the light and air of Miami Beach, the bay, and downtown Miami.

I live on the fourth floor of Glass. After retiring first class, best in field, I moved into this beautiful glass tomb whereupon I watch the sea. My robe, bleached of meaning, whips like the patriotic flags of youth. High as fuck, my pale condo disconnects from Glass like a fried hard drive and I am floating over the ocean. I’m a UFO and some kind of saintly sailor too. I bid you all adieu!

Like Robinson Crusoe I locate a very cool little island. Palm trees glimmer pretty oily and kind of sway to jungle music that infects these dreary dreams. Very sex. Very Donkey Kong Country. Smells like Caribbean dog meat––OK, I’ll bite. I somehow land the glass tomb. An apple red crab scurries into the emerald sea. Speaking of: a crab reminiscent of foes in a Mario Bros. arcade game I became addicted to in 1985 in the cave-like Pizza Hut in Jupiter, Florida. What a dump. The noted Hut wherefrom a child rapist abducted Baby Brendan, a local blonde. His face is vaseleeny in my memory. I noticed some strange leaves––shriveled, dried up. I brushed them away and discovered a big black hole.

My life is so beautiful here. I have not a care in the world. Sorrows get booted, deported to the half-sunken mainland. 

You may wonder where I got my millions: I started a very important company in adult––Heaven Can’t Help You. You’ve probably never heard of me––forget me.

Don’t talk to me about the industry, trends, charts, where things are headed. I never knew what “pornography” was. I do what comes naturally. If you must know, lean in, young Sandbergian: “The secret of my success is total authenticity, a blurring of faces, various sculptural things I would put in the back of sets, the Pyramids. That was the pinnacle––a young piece of trash getting blown up in front of Egyptian ruins, a white and red head carved up behind a mildewed sphinx.”

I turn on the TV all day. I mean I turn it on all day and night. I turn it on then off I mean and sometimes I turn it off then on and just sit on the balcony in white terrycloth and let the moon burn me blue. TV got me burned blue bad tonight: lights flashing in my condo like a damn Xerox. Dizzying. I stand up and walk onto the balcony. A great saxophonist, the best in the world I have been told lives on the 12th floor. I smell the sea and yes, I hear him too, the great alto. Is that what it’s called––alto? Is a saxophone sound called a baritone––what is baritone? In any case, he is a great man of notes, if not letters. His name is Tyler Perry.

Who would have thunk it? my daddy used to say. Me, a millionaire, trapped inside of a beautiful gag gift––the fly in translucent plastic. A nasty little ice cube right out of Spencer’s Gifts. I said this place is so heavenly to me. To me! Though I see it now as a kind of hell or Hell, a holding cell of some kind, crime unknown, is being looked into, the speaker tells me. By order of international court, UNISEX. The left speaker on my TV. Not the right one. The right one––or rather, the preferred one––is talking about the president––whom? President Bodymate. Sugary propaganda blaring. My Sony features babies with cleft pallets screaming about 1-900-hundred numbers and the like. I am so alone without you.

I walk onto the balcony as the circling police helicopter shines his spotlight on the turbulent, oil-black ocean––a great white shark bucks in the chop like a vampire. Them things hate light. Spear it like moby dick, dogooders. Do it very like EA video games. Drugs run me in tonight. Damn things run you ragged. I call Dan (my accountant) and say, During dinner at Julien I think the waiter roofied me . . . Hello? Hello? Nobody on the line. I call my mom and say: If thems was roofies, roofies dragged me down the street by Crazy Taxi and left me looking like footprints. Wowww. 

New day.

Just want to communicate to my friends and family that I’m feeling a whole lot better, man, very much in the now. I have a positive new political philosophy. Total destruction! Total anal destruction, if you prefer, I say with a wink––*ding*––I mean it man, I really do. I want to poison the whole world. There’s no way to tell you how hard it’s been, living in Hell, but I like it so much now. It gives me a kind of power that’s hard to weird. I mean hard to wield. I’m the weird one. I stand up and smash my fist into the wall. Some amount of time passes and I sit in my chair. Who were you again?