Category: Myles Zavelo

Mean girls try to hurt him.

Angelica, Christine, Deborah, Ginger, Lillybeth, Teresa.

They are cold messes.

I’ve had it up to here with them.

They can go suck fifteen thousand toes.

Fifteen thousand toes. All lined up, wriggling on a beach.

The mean girls can kneel in the sand and suck them.

The mean girls say that Joe/Joey/Jonas/Jonah is a fucking pig.

When they confront him, he goes completely deaf––I admire him for that bravery.

He’s not a pig.

He just spreads love around like he’s lousy with it.

A year ago, I was living in a home for boys suffering from body dysmorphia.

We could barely make it outside. We cut our nails outside. It became impossible to keep from stealing. Our hands were clumsy and awkward. Terrible words ran through our heads. Our voices left us, changed, even when we didn’t have colds, even if we had nothing to say.

We never had anything to say.

We gossiped. We heard things so well it bothered us. We played with our hair. We masturbated. We masturbated each other. We vegetated. We had stomach pains from anxiety disorders. We played sick to get out of things. We played plenty of basketball, table tennis, and video games.

We talked about girls, sometimes women. We criticized them. We cracked our jokes wide open, like supermarket eggs, all over the panicky heads and bodies of our victims. We were trying to be men: playing around, edging up against the law, getting under your skin, and staying there.