Brandon Diehl
ON FACEBOOK TERMINATING ITS FACT-CHECKING PROGRAM
It happened again. This was the second time this month I
forgot to lock the front door, which also meant this was the
second time this month where Mark Zuckerberg snuck into
my bathroom to eat all my toilet paper. I caught him just as
he was starting to suck down another roll. I flicked on the
light switch and saw him on his knees, pale, glossy-eyed, his
palms to the floor. Foam poured from his mouth like he’d
just chugged an entire bottle of bubble bath product. I said,
“Stoppit, Mark! We’ve talked about this!” He jerked his gaze
upward, licked a scrap of toilet paper from his lips. Then he
made this awful noise. It sounded like this: “Ugggghhuaahh!”
I said, “I’m not scared of you, Mark! I’ll fuck you up!” I
grabbed the plunger from next to the toilet and smacked
him on the back with the plunge-y part. He made a different
awful noise, like “Arrrf!” Then he started eating the toilet
paper faster, using his hands to shovel it into his mouth. I
said, “You motherfucker! Stop!” I smacked him on the back
with the plunger again, and he made that same awful noise:
“Arrrf!” He moved his head upward to see me again. Slowly
this time. He was whimpering a little. Something about his
eyes looked different now. He was sad. Just a sad guy who
wanted to eat some toilet paper. I backed out of the room.
Closed the door as gently as I could. Then I pushed a dresser
in front of the door, followed by another dresser. This was 5
days ago. I’ve been pissing in soho cups and showering in
the yard with the garden hose. I sleep at night with earplugs
in, but I can still hear him sometimes, piercing through the
cheap silicone, scratching at the walls, rummaging through
drawers, unwilling to accept that there’s nothing left.
Sometimes I use a hand mirror to peek under the door. With
a bloated stomach, he looks emptier than ever. Like the
toilet paper holder. Like a cardboard tube.
LITHIUM
You bumped hard into my shopping cart at Dollar General. I said, “Sorry!” but then remembered I had nothing to be sorry for. You went, “Oof!” and bent over to pick up the jumbo-sized bag of cat food you had dropped. As you did this, your long hair got stuck around one of the wheels of my shopping cart, but you either didn’t notice or pretended you didn’t notice. You pulled your head away fast, causing a huge chunk of your hair to rip out. Then you walked away like that hadn’t just occurred. I took the chunk of your hair and put it on my keychain. Please email me. I wanna meet your cat. My email address is iambrandondiehl@gmail.com.
GLUTON-FREE
Today I angry-reacted to a picture of a hot dog on Facebook. I don’t know why. I’ve never thought of myself as a person who rages at hot dogs. I didn’t even look at who posted the picture. I closed my browser and frowned at my reflection on my monitor. I’ve been trying to act less insane on the Internet. I’ve changed my bio to “human” instead of “black belt in getting unfriended.” I used to post about how my biggest fear was waking up to find that my entire life had been a dream and that I was actually the lead singer of Smash Mouth. I used to reply to every one of Smash Mouth’s posts and say, “Fuck you. You ruined the movie, Shrek.” I used to message film studios and pitch them my idea: a reimagining of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind about a woman erasing her memory after making eye contact with a guy in a Smash Mouth shirt at a red light. I’ve been trying to act less insane on the Internet. I’ve made individual Facebook accounts for every single one of my emotions, just so I could block them. Angry-reacting to a hot dog was a relapse. I dread telling my sponsor. My sponsor isn’t an understanding person, which is because he isn’t a person. My sponsor is my cat. When I tell my cat about my relapse, I’ll imagine him saying, “Maybe you angry-reacted to a picture of a hot dog because, at first glance, it looked like an unsolicited dick pic. Or maybe you’re mad about the meat industry. Maybe you’re mad about the exploitation and inhumane treatment of animals. You could have been projecting. Maybe you’re mad at yourself for still not being vegan. Be vegan, you sick motherfucker!” I’ll scratch my head, then say, “Another possibility is that it wasn’t the hot dog itself that made me mad. Maybe it was the bun. Maybe my brain made a subconscious association between the bun and this video I saw once of this Smath Mouth concert. I saw the singer of Smash Mouth threaten to jump into the crowd and beat people up for throwing tiny slices of bread at the stage.” From now on, whenever I’m feeling extra abnormal, I’ll deactivate my Facebook account. When I have a panic attack, I’ll smoke marijuana so I can have intrusive thoughts about dinosaurs as I continue to have a panic attack. When I’m sad, I’ll lie in bed and listen to music. Nothing upbeat or anxious. No ska or bubblegum pop. No Smash Mouth. No band that has ever covered, been covered by, or played a show with Smash Mouth. When I’m pissed off, I’ll sprint outside. I’ll dropkick a mailbox or smash my face through a picnic table. I’ll drive to Wal-Mart, buy a 7-foot-tall inflatable dinosaur costume and a stale baguette, equip that shit, and challenge a potted plant to a sword fight.
