Handling Knives While Naked by Brian S. Corbett

I hate handling knives when I’m naked. The glare from the overhead fluorescent lights; my bobbing, wrinkled thing.—Damn, it makes me shiver.

I hate being outside during a severe wind storm, especially when I remove the blindfold and realize everyone’s left me alone.

I can’t stand being amongst a crowd of idiots and simpletons, though it does make me feel smart.

I hate having to explain myself to others.

I hate not being able to just get up and go somewhere whenever the mood strikes.

I hate my neighbor’s sense of entitlement. Who cares if his name’s on the lease? I have just as much right to live there as he does.

As much as I enjoy being bound and gagged, I hate not being able to move.

I hate being watched when I’m taking a shit. I feel I can’t really be myself.

I can’t stand it when my mother offers to help me wipe myself. “Mom!” I cry. “I’m twenty three for God’s sake!” Sometimes she walks away, sometimes I have to let her do it.

I hate it when my cat smirks at me. I have to look around just to make sure.

I hate it when I push my dolls too close to the loosened screen. Their descending screams frighten me. My wife thinks I’m a sissy. I hate her for this, and the only way to make these feelings go away is to write an anonymous letter to her.

I hate the way the bank teller grunts when he masturbates behind the counter, butI’m thankful for the hand sanitizer they offer.

Although the creaking sounds soothe me, walking over the loosened porch boards reminds me that I have to wash the blood stains out of my pajamas.

I hate how the computer monitor thinks it’s better than me. One of these days I’m going to make it pay.

I hate how the lady across the street won’t let me play with her kids any more. How was I supposed to know they wouldn’t appreciate the KingFridayhand puppet? I’m sorry it didn’t completely cover my erection.

I hate running out of pins. The skin samples need to be stretched as tight as possible.

Having visitors really annoys me, especially when they come into my room and pick up my stuff and walk out with it. Can’t they tell I’m watching them? Don’t I have any say?

I hate the way people glare. Not everyone’s perfect. Besides, the Jell-0 washes off easily. And I will not, no matter what, ever again believe that public payphones are supposed to be locked from the outside.

I hate being wrongly accused of defacing public property, especially when I know I erased my footprints. I hate the way people get nervous and move away when I unload the pots and pans, cleaning supplies and baking ingredients at the beach. Look at what they let their kids bring!

I hate getting those dirty looks at the funeral home. Sometimes the only way to handle grief is to laugh, isn’t it?

I hate it when my brothers and sisters rearrange my fly collection.

Vacuum cleaners really annoy me, especially when they still work after I’ve cut the plug off of the cord.

No child should ever be subjected to watching his parents having sex, although I’m jealous that only my brother gets to participate.

Doctors and parents suck. Why didn’t I have any say in whether or not I would get to keep my foreskin?

I hate that my father woke up before I got to finish. After he stopped screaming I think he began to realize that yes, breasts are a waste of flesh on moms.

I hate the way deer just stare.

I hate having to share my stuff. Don’t they know I’m the only one living here? Who’s to say who gets what? Why can’t I just make these decisions?

Why is it that my mother gets to have stains in her underwear, but I can’t?

I hate how thick the Plexiglas is.

The next person who yells at me for insisting that my anus is supposed to be a one way street is going to make me really mad.

I hate when the condom slips off between the pillows, especially since I have to do my own laundry.

Brian is a fifty-something-year-old living on the North Carolina coastline with his gorgeous, much younger wife. He just barely holds down a meaningless management job and stores his partially completed short stories in a random folder that only his cat knows how to access.>