I moved into my own body at around twenty-three, only to find myself embarrassed and horrified at the nonsense it had been getting up to.
Especially my mouth.
I was in a club. It was dark. It was late. The Irish man I was talking to looked deep into my eyes.
“You know, I thought you were a decent guy. But you’re kind of a piece of shit,” he repeated. My mouth had just said “what?” even though my ears had been working perfectly fine.
I looked down at my hands. If my mouth has been pulling this shit, what have you bastards been up to, I thought. I used my hands to feel my ears, my nose, my hair.
When was the last time I got a haircut?
I looked back at the Irishman.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, “I had a rough childhood.”
What the hell are you talking about? I thought at my mouth.
“Stop it!” I cried.
The Irishman frowned at me.
“Not you! Myself. I’m just really–ah!”
I cut myself off before lying again. I tested my feet, they worked as I expected. I turned around and ran to the bathroom.
I looked in the mirror. My eyes, pupils dilated, my shirt open way too far. I buttoned it. I splashed water on my face.
I walked to the stalls. The big one, even though I wasn’t handicapped. I tore off all of my clothes. I looked down at myself; covered in hair, full of drugs and beer.
“What the hell have you been getting up to?” I asked my nipples. They ignored me. My penis cowered between my legs.
“You’re certainly not innocent!” I remonstrated.
I looked at my toes, unclipped, dirty. I wanted to punish my own body, but I was trapped in it, now.
“I’m ashamed at you!” I told my body as I examined twenty-three years of memories; twenty-three years of no one behind the wheel of this suicidal sack of meat. I put my pants back on. My shirt, too.
“Things are about to change around here!” I proclaimed.
I meant it.
I forget what happened next.