It feels like being eaten and dragged at the same time. And no one is recording and no one is laughing and no one is taking eyes off the tv. There are tucked away receipts as acting scripts with no typographical errors and no insincerity and no exclamation marks. Be lucky to find a comma. Be lucky to find the receipts at all, and if so, proceed to being a person and criticize the penmanship.
It feels like murmuring apologizies while being eaten and dragged. But the murmurs are gurgled with shoddy contempt. Contempt worth seven hundred dollars, plus tax, plus service fee, plus a plea on your knees with your hands clasped. Hand over sixteen digits, acquire an entirely different receipt from the ones tucked away. Grab a screet shot, forward an email, put one leg over the other, and pretend there isn't piss dripping down. Wet, hot, and sticky; it feels like relief, when really you just forgot that you're already half eaten and your skin is open and raw from the dragging. It feels like relief anyway, like the way salt foams the snails.
