My friend! Always failing to mention my only friend! Don’t want to share him with anyone else!
Why? Is that a problem for you? That I’ve made a decision? For once?
It’s a tall, strapping, charming, and viciously handsome young man.
With aggressive red hair and poor table manners.
We really don’t know what to do with each other.
His name is Joe, Joey, Jonas, or Jonah.
I can never remember. Even if I do, I won’t say. Don’t even bother twisting my arm.
His bedroom: almost his best quality.
His bedroom: a cold, windowless bedroom.
I adore that room. That black bedroom. I am dead in that room.
In that room, it’s very easy to forget about Arizona—Arizona?
Leave Arizona? And never come back? But what about his bedroom? And what about him?
Please, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
I would much rather sleep in his bed.
I would much rather sleep in his bed for the rest of my life. I’m talking about male bonding.
I’m so mad at the sun. I’m so sad on the floor.
I’m never going to surprise myself.
I’m always passed out on his bed. After the drugs and alcohol and whipped cream chargers.
He usually falls asleep in the living room.
He prefers the living room.
It’s a white leather sofa with his name on it.
He understands life. I don’t understand life.
He wants to live. I don’t want to die.
And my heart—it sweats.
( ) ( ) ( )
His parents are dead. It happened two years ago. I don’t feel bad for him.
He can do whatever he wants.
He can fall asleep wherever he wants.
He could begin narcolepsy.
He could break six car windows.
He could steal modern cars.
He could start to drive away from me.
He could leave, never come back.
He could do something with his life.
He could take his bedroom away.
He could break my heart.
He could really hurt me.
You know, if he wanted to.
( ) ( ) ( )
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.
And he is: deep down. A perfect tragedy in Joey. Never tragedies in pigs, and we know this.
Oh, no! His name! I’ve spilled his name!
Oops! A big, big oops!
Why am I such a jerkoff?
( ) ( ) ( )
Joey’s a good guy. Joey’s a great guy. Joey’s a person.
Take it from me.
Don’t take him from me, please.
I was a person, too.
But I died.
Joey said that, with his arm around my shoulder, on that sofa.
Joey says that I was great before I died, and he’s absolutely right.
The last time I saw Joey?
Right now.
He cracks the most hilarious joke.
I start howling.
He says that I’m laughing my old laugh.
But I don’t correct him.
He starts kicking an old rotted soccer ball around.
He kicks it really far, with great power.
Joey Lee, can I sleep in your bed tonight, please?