I got punched in the face at a bar and now blood is gushing and I can’t find a way to get the blood to stop falling from my face. Two days ago a kid got shot here for saying “Hey Susie” to a douche who is insecure about his masculinity being violated in front of other men, so the douche took out a shotgun and shot the shit out of Sean, the kid who got shot. I found this out after I walked in the door and saw caution tape on the ground and said “What the fuck.” The bartender heard me and explained that the news had been here with cameras and they told him they would edit out the blood later. I hadn’t seen the news report because I don’t have cable at my house — my house is an apartment and I live there by myself. Cable would be nice, but it’s a luxury because I can’t even afford to buy loaves of bread, so I just imagine the bread on my sandwiches. This causes me to bite into sandwich meat too hard because the bread isn’t actually there and then I bite my tongue and it causes blood to gush out of my tongue from my teeth tearing through the tissue. I’ve bitten through it plenty of times while I’ve imagined eating bread with my sandwiches. Maybe on a Monday someday I’ll win the lottery and win big time, big millions, mega millions, super mega millions. That’s the dream that I dream a lot, but it doesn’t come true, so I go to places like this bar with my friends because they ask me to and they want me to and I guess I want to too. I have this dream that I win the lottery big time and I get out of town before my cousins find out because they would probably kill me quickly and steal the money before I got to spend any of it. I’d probably buy some patio furniture so that I could sit on a pool deck without feeling wet or something worse. I hate sitting on wet pool decks because my swim trunks get soaked and I can’t stand that soaked feeling. It’s the worst feeling, but you can avoid it with some patio furniture. I used to wet the bed as a little kid. I’d wake up and wonder where the wetness was coming from and why I was stuck in it and unable to determine the source. My mom would walk into my room, smell the yellow against my sheets before she saw it, shake her head, wake me up, and fill the bathtub with water. She’d toss me in while I was confused and unsure of what was happening because I was half asleep and naive. From one wetness to the next, it was a cycle that I couldn’t break until the age of eight, when I somehow gained control of my bladder. I’m so thankful for that. I’m thankful that the guy who punched me let me wash my face in this bathroom. I try to clean my face, but the water stopped working and the bartender has yet to call a plumber. So I just use paper towels. I feel dumb for wasting so many of them, because they’re rendered useless as soon as they touch my face. I should probably get back out there to the guy who punched me. He called me a bed-wetter so I called him one too and he punched me in the face. He must’ve wet the bed a lot as a child too, because there was a lot of insecurity in his fist. I should go punch him back so he can know he’s not alone.