FreePainReport.Com 3

I set myself on fire just to see if I could still feel. Just kidding, that's fucking insane. If you'd actually do something like that, you need to get some help ASAP. Me, my name is Jamal and I live out of a meth van. I eat baked beans out of a can and fart a lot but none of my clients have complained yet about their drugs smelling like cat shit. I opened a can of baked beans and poured them into the sink. Then I got up and scratched my balls. An entire box of jujyfruit was sitting on the table but I was keeping them hoping they would mature like a bottle of wine. Life's a bitch and so am I.
I turned on the TV. The fraggles were on except it was missing the 'r' and they were smoking crack and had crackshot eyes. I put on a condom and had sex with myself before calling the police. They told me they'd call me back but McGuyver was on and not to interrupt their quality time. Can you blame them? No. Can you blame me? No. Can you blame the past? The past, present, and future are altogether as one single point of singularity.
I took out a knife to stab myself I mean to shave. I shaved my beard off in one clean cut but I also slashed open a gash on my chin. I bled all over the place like a giantess on the rag. I thought about high school and how the kids I grew up with all got jobs in the television and film industry or CEOs or otherwise serving as dominating sugar daddies and me I hadn't shaven in twelve years and I live in a meth van and pour baked beans down the sink for the cockroaches to eat like Joe's Apartment. I got up again and took off my underwear. I was still bleeding very badly. I picked up the phone to ask a priest to read me my last rights but I realized the wire was slit. Someone had literally cut the phone wire. There were bugs on it. The wire was bugged too.
I lit up a firecracker and it shot through the van's ceiling. It was supposed to spell out 'Eat at Joe's' but instead it was more like madcewihdbecoewnchnoewhjdcew. I checked my fingers because of a soaring pain (no pun intended) and they were bleeding all over the floor. I kicked the wall of my motorhome in sheer disgust and my big toe twisted and turned and fell off. I hobbled and picked it up and stored it in the refrigerator. I would need the meat protein.
At this point my chin was bleeding, my finger stubs were bleeding, and my newly found toe severed orifice was bleeding, and I was feeling really tired and about to die. I picked up the remote control with my still intact foot and turned on the TV. There was a soap opera on. "Carlos is dating Sheniqua?", a middle-aged blonde-haired woman cried while nursing her baby. That was no baby. That was a midget in swaddling clothes wearing a sombrero. I put on another station. It was the Jetsons. No, wait, that wasn't the Jetsons. It was an advertisement for corn nuts. Space age flavor. A futuristic corn nut. I scratched my balls and stuck my fingers in my mouth. Cheeto dust. Someone fell out of one of the space age homes on sky pillars and plummeted to their death. Or, so it was intended. There was a scream, but it was distorted, synthesized, in digital. I kicked the TV with my at the time still good foot and my pinky toe bent and broke off and a rat climbed in through the hole in the roof and ate it. Or grabbed it and took it back to its rat babies while gnawing on it. I felt good about being a hypothetical provider to a family of rats.
I flipped to the next station. It was an office building. Employees were sticking pencils up their noses and commenting on their daily stock portfolios and commenting that the stocks in food, shelter, sex, and air were falling. Figures. Things change all the time. A grizzled man with five o' clock shadow, probably in his 40s or 50s, ripped the tie off his chest because he wasn't wearing a shirt. "Hey Mr. Kensington, I'll have the reports on your desk by Tuesday. Which is today! And at 5 o'clock!". He checked his wrist, as if to check a watch for the time. There was no watch. There was no time. "And my sense tells me that it's all right now!". Mr. Kensington opened his office door. He had a 70s porn mustache and Mr. Kensington splattered his seed all over his face. I got up and hobbled my way to the kitchen area while my chin, foot, other foot, and I forget what the other thing was continued to decorate my floor a brilliant crimson hue. I was looking for popcorn, but I had run out of popcorn. I opened the fridge handle using my teeth. My teeth cracked. Then my two front teeth fell off. They crumbled into cheeto dust on the floor. White, pasty cheeto dust. This might symbolize that I am sexually frustrated. I licked the cheeto dust on the floor and my tongue got stuck to the floor because that part of the floor was uncarpeted and it was very cold, and your tongue can get stuck to stuff when it is very cold. I could no longer move and I was going to die. I was ready. I waited for a bright light to shine upon my soon-to-be carcass and beam me back home.
But there was no light. No bright light. No light. I just laid there and bled for hours. I must have bled 72 ounces of blood. I think there was symbolism in that. I'm not quite sure. I just then remembered that my phone line was cut, but I had no teeth or tongue to grab it with so I used my hands and held the wire together. Then I remembered my phone was actually cordless and the wire was for decoration. I asked the operator for the number to the police because I belong in a nuthouse and as a nut I felt like a total criminal. "Are you in pain or not?", the operator asked. I did not know how to answer the question. Then I remembered an old infomercial I saw when I was a wee little lad. "Yes", I clearly stated, recalling my speech pathology lessons from high school. "We'll be there in a jiffy."
I bled another 128 ounces of blood and then I heard a knock on the door. My chin was bleeding, my feet, my teeth and gums, one of my hands. There was another knock on the door. I grabbed the phone and threw it at the door to symbolize a 'welcome, please come on in' gesture. A man wearing a doo-rag and gold money chain brandishing a nerf gun discoed through the door, not in disgust but with his gold teeth a sparklin' like a sparkle horse.
"All you need is love", he stated. I heard that he sang a song, but he didn't sing a song. "You're the free pain report guy." He smiled. He winked. "I used to sing a song, but I no longer need to sing a song. I used to be an entirely different person. I thought that the best way to heal someone was to let them go. Forever." He grabbed me by the stubs of my fingers of the hand that I blew off with the firecracker earlier. "Now I realize that love conquers all. You are my friend."
He threw me on his back. He had a whole band with him in that flashy convertible of his. Drummer, beatboxers, bass guitar. It matters not, other than that music is good. Music is wholesome. Music is good for the wholesome. A heartbeat is a rhythm. Music is good for the soul.
I bled another 200 gallons of blood in his backseat. Nobody seemed to care. They accepted me for who I was. And as we drove off home toward Mexico, I realized I didn't have no blood to bleed no matter and my heart, liver, nerves, muscle tissue, and so much more all laid in a pile at the bottom of the car seat area, on the floor. It was all over now. I was who I was since before I was even born. And who I will be for very, very much longer. Until I decay. Until I fall away. Until I return back home. All that is left. All that is me. All that I cannot leave behind. Returns back home.
I was a skeleton. And I was among friends.
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