GYSO Reviews Part 43 - Meditations on Death, Grief, and Moving On

Published: 2024-06-30

Thim looks at a photograph of Tim and Thor, who stand together laughing at something off camera. Except it’s not really a photograph, per se, it’s more like something Thim scribbled on a few pieces of toilet paper with the closest pen-like object he could find – a green whiteboard pen. Tim and Thor are less like Tim and Thor and more like two crudely drawn stick figures. One has something resembling horns and the other has some sort of … teeth? formation going on that could make you think of either a vampire or a bunny.

Sara: Hey. You’ve been moping at that… picture all afternoon. Go and try out the electrical in the basement instead, make you feel better. I fixed it up all nice for you, and I don’t expect a thank you. What you should thank me for is taking time to make you your favorite lunch – lasagna lasagna.

Thim, hunched over the kitchen table, puts out a cigarette butt on an ash tray, and stares at the “picture”. He pushes his chair from the kitchen table as he straightens his lower back and cracks his neck, gently exhaling a breath of melancholy. He looks at Sara with his eyeballs, surprisingly enough.

Thim: They say grief comes in waves. But I don’t find that to be true. Instead, it’s more like a big ass-garbo truck – steaming with rancid fucking shit and puke and moldy-ass crap. It’s not a wave, it’s backin’ that shit up to your fucking face and just unloading it on you, you know? Like a damn-ass millionare playboy unloading on some poor-ass motherfuckin’-ass vicitm of human trafficking, hiding somewhere in a purpose-built secret-ass fucking fuck-dungeon, you know?

He sits in a washed-out bathrobe, wearing only Spongebob-themed speedos underneath. Despite this, Thim has a resolute energy about him, radiating like radiation radiates radiating radiation radially. Not having lost the thread quite yet, he continues.

Thim: And so, this dump truck is just pounding you (pounding motions with one of his fists), over and over and over and over again (continued pounding motions, now with both fists) with steamo-ass fucking garbo. (sudden pause). And then, right there. Sweaty, disgusting, and universally despised, you glimpse that someone or something is approaching through the mist of literal feces being pummeled at your face (graphic motions with hands). This is it, the signal. The proof that I, too, no matter my size, shape, or … smell… will be found, seen, and understood by someone or something who dares approach me – no matter what I’ve been stepping in, if you catch my drift. (pause) That was them.

In the life that has taken the shape, size, and … girth… of Thim’s, there aren’t many moments where the silence feels like it belongs. But here is one of those moments. The shuffling of the uncut grass outside the GYSO Mansion, practically a wildflower meadow. The local bees and insects gather to compete for “food”, making small buzzing sounds reaching the kitchen.

Thim: But you know what they say: “One man’s trash is another man’s garbage”.

The wrinkles in Sara’s forehead indicates momentary confusion and/or constipation. Thim makes use of the confusion and/or constipation to quickly take a swig of a flask he’s hidden in a badly-sewn inner pocket of his bathrobe.

Thim: Psych, motherfucker! They were just another fucking-ass, garbo’-ass, lookin’-ass, boring-ass, dumptrucking-motherfucking-ass (breath), fucking dump truck fucking-ass ass fucking fuck, you know?! And, you know, they say it gets worse before it gets better. So then tell me why the damn smell of me has been keepin’ on getting worse and worse even after I’ve had the pleasure of being rid of them for this long?! Tell me why the damn feeling of the fucking-ass pummeling of hard-ass, trash-ass trash-garbo lookin’-ass shit is only getting worse?! HUH?! TELL ME WHY. (short pause, breath in, breath out). Tell me why I can’t do nothing ‘bout myself except keep thinkin’ bout’ how they betrayed me, put my miserable-ass fuckin’-ass ass into this world and I still wanted to save them? Except, the one time it really mattered, it didn’t matter.

The rasping of a metal screw cork. A single chug of liquid, each movement of the mouth and the throat seemingly oblivious to the silence that sorrounds them. As the metal flask hits the kitchen table, the surprise recipient of this … life philosophy (??? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯) plunges Thim out of his monolouge.

Sara: That might be the most profound and beautiful thing you will ever say.

As a single tear is slowly rolling accross each of Sara’s cheeks, Thim grabs a lighter lying next to the ashtray. The old mansion floor greets the lonesome splatter of tears, made company by the ashes of toiletpaper previously held together by scotch tape.

MEANWHILE, IN THE LIVING ROOM

Snag’darr: Did you hear something?

Henry: Hear what? Do you have any sevens?

Snag’darr: Nevermind. Go fish.