Dan Says I Never Write About Him

Whenever Dan’s getting fucked by the boys he lets inside his parents’ house, the Precious Moments collection doesn’t know what to do. On their shelves, they sit, wide-eyed from all of the noise and reality of it all, and the little nativity boys and girls pull their cloaks over their eyes and turn around until it’s over. That’s not bedpost thumping you’re hearing; if you listen more closely, you’ll come to realize that it’s more of a clattering, from all of those ceramics, shaking and clanking together.

Standing in the kitchen, hearing a radio blaring from the bathroom, I hesitate to announce my arrival because I can tell something has happened. His voice is following along to the lyrics, no doubt as he’s gelling his hair before the mirror. I greet the breakables in another room and their faces are straining to hold those permanent positions.

In the portrait of his parents hanging in the living room, a single tear rolls down the massive cheek of his smiling mother, just under the glass. Despite Victorian woodwork and various mismatching refrigerator magnets holding up images of the happy family, their boy is going to hell and only the walls know.

There ya go, Danny boy. Print it out, make a paper airplane, and stick it up your ass.


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