12.

"Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him an ass, and he will tell you the truth."

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That face in the mirror, it wasn't his or hers. It had struggled with sex, genre, style, identity, and had reformed itself again and again, in search of one and only reality, one person, one face that would apply to the entire world. Maybe at some point, it took it too far, or did some idiotic fuck-up, and now lay semi-bare, semi-exposed in the mirror, behind the glass, waiting for the verdict.

Okay, hit me. Okay, throw the first fucking stone if it makes you feel so good about yourself. Tie me to the shrine and sacrifice the face to your mission. You're right. I deserve it. I'm not saying i don't.

My purpose in this face is to be humble, and angry, but mostly the lesson it shall learn is humbleness.

That face that looks at its face in the mirror: obviously hurt, and concentrated which brings about a wrinkle or two, very faint, on the forehead. Apart from the predicaments of human, aand particularly this human's expression (hovering somewhere between caricature and complete lack of expression thereof) the face's features are: ordinary, common. People say it's cute which is another way of saying "non-spectacular, blah, whatever". Right? It feels ugly. That makes him feel more special. Like he could make a difference.

What do you see when you look at this face?
I'm not sure since it changes so often.
Are you saying i'm a liar?
I see a face asking to be mauled, and that would fix you for good.
Am I being banished?
No, you're to be punished.
Oh, cool. Thanks, I guess. Now i can be myself again.

Back to the face in the mirror: you brush an eyebrow into shape, and are momentarily confused to see a finger doing the same at the face in the mirror. You poke a finger in one nostril, in the mirror: the same. Dig it around. Nose looks inflated on one side. Ha, ha, better. Remove fnger and there's some blood. Even better.

There's a barrier somewhere there, between the cavity of the nose and the brain, a bone perhaps, if you break through it and poke around with something sharp, you access the brain, particularly a brain area that, once dead, can turn you into a zombie. Or so i've read. In a book, there was a psychopath serial-killer and wanted to create his army of zombie sex slaves. The experiments were a failure. The boys lived for a while, unresponsive to any stimuli, drooling from the mouth, brain-dead, shallow breathing, until he fucked the life completely out of them.

His thoughts are so vague and fake and meaningless and scattered to so many directions, they make his eyes look dumb, smudged from the canvas of reality, his face the abstract contour of a malicious retard trying to be smart.

Now he sees what those people drooling over him see. Idiocy brings out the best in him. I guess it's okay since it can buy him drugs, oblivion, a different perspective of self, a new face, internet access.

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"Your ass is so expressive, so opinionated, so beautiful..."

Maybe if I could crap from my mouth and speak with my asshole, I'd be Einstein, I'd have found the cure for cancer, maybe i'd get respect then. My ass is the perfect face, one that covers or completely erases reality, one that could lure you into obsession, lust, love, death, madness, an ass more eloquent and earnest than any word coming out of these keys, if only it were mine, this perfect mask.

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"Shut up, i need to have a heart-to-heart with your ass."
"Shhhhht, baby, now let your ass do the talking."

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"Should I go and leave you two alone?"
Trying to be smart now? The nerve of you...
"Mmhm" slurp-slurp-plop "What? you said something?"
"No - go on."
And: slurp-slurp-slurp.

I lie with my face on the pillow and try to conjure up a better place. Bad luck. A better face. Worse lack.

His ass yawns. But in an obviously unforgettable manner. I can hear the ahs ond oohs, as if a new wonder of the world has just been revealed. The audience applauds and hoots and cheers. What a SHOW!

His ass is a selfish bastard. Mine is just ambitious. But in a benign way.