A Short Story I Wrote. Looking for feedback.

Whoever this busty man was, he yearned for it – he wanted it like he had to pee his pants but was unable to because of societal oppression against pants-peers. His lips – I could kiss a rock, but that doesn't make me Dwayne Johnson. If you were what you kissed, I would be a Gordita from Taco Bell or a freshly cleaned Toilet. His lips tell wondorous tales that are like pebbles in my ears. The wavy hair, reminds us and me in particular of an Inconvienent Truth™: Man-made climate change. Notice – look closely – "man"-made? (see it?) If it was feminism inspired, it would be: WOMAN-MADE climate change. You might not reject patriarchal standards, but facts are facts and the business of the American people is, well, business. Of course, the racist-sexist-homophobic-islamaphobic-transphobic-phobicphobic cis (white) men will never understand this. Even I, a white man, do not understand what I just claimed all white men (who by default are all of those adjectives) are unable to understand.

But now, I move on through the store: I smell perfume. It smells like when you are at a theater and you are with a super-gorgeous woman and she puts her hand on your thigh and whispers this in your ear: You can save 15% or more by switching to Geico™ . Of course, her warm breath and promises of insurance savings by switching already has me aroused. I am thinking, if any more blood goes down there I would be a deflated balloon in the head, opposite of those cute helium balloons that would go into the sky and go up and up and up. So deflated, like a bounce house that is losing its air to go back into the truck becuase little Timmy's 6th birthday party was over an hour ago and all the adults are hammered like nails in a deck, (made by Black and Decker™ Tools™) deck of cards, Deckard from Blade Runner, deck that one guy in the face – hammered because little kids are usually so annoying that the prospect of no alcohol at all around a bunch of screaming toddlers makes you want to scream, and/or bury yourself alive. Of course, when this happens to me, I change my name to Rodrigo Montoya, move to Tiajuana, Drink exactly 3 Bottles of Modelo™ Especial, A ton of tequila, and live a new life as a Desperado under the Mexican Sun, making friends and enemies with all kinds of colorful people and making a bit of green on the side.

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Resurrection of Babylon, A Pants-Ziggurat. A Tower that may one day reach the Heavens, and/or split its builders into various groups by the confusing of languages. Of course, I was in the Boy Scouts for two weeks: pitching tents is an art. This obelisk of carnality raises itself (with the help of blood, of course) from the sands of down there. She keeps whispering deals to me, like she is a phone book.
Of course, it is 2016, and she can be whatever gender she wants. If she self-identifies as a phonebook-sexual, then it is my obligation to be the phone that makes her exist. That, my friends, is what love is. Love isn't like some sappy, tree-sap Jurassic-Park dinosaur excrement where a little mosquito in some amber gives birth to literal dinosaurs and that iconic main theme. Love is more like this: You are in a line, waiting to get your Driver's Lisence renewed because you're over 21 but the bar kicks you out and it is (very) embarassing because your Lisence is expired. It's almost like you somehow stop being over 21 or even being a person until you pay them 33 dollars to take your picture and you are trying not to smile so you can look cool in the picture. You get the picture back and it is only moderately cool. You think of that one album cover, where the guy smokes the cigarette and looks super cool, like this:
PICTURED: Arctic Monkey's First Album, Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not. Featuring Mr. Cool Cigarette Chav Dude on the cover.

But you remember, Cigarettes killed your Grandma, like some kind of grassy-knoll tobacco assassin – grandma-killer. She only wanted to drive through Dallas, but the Soviets sent Cigarettes to do the job. The picture on your license is not very cool at all. At least, not compared to Mr. Chav on the cover. You begin to walk to the door, and you hear a voice: "Sir, you left your receipt." You turn around, eager to get your receipt, as that could be your only way out of being falsely arrested.

It's like this – the cops are out, looking for black people to shoot on the night of October 17, 2016. I am at Walmart™, buying a cooked chicken because those are actually pretty good. I am standing in line when I get tackled by police. Of course, I am mad because my chicken is all over the ground. They try to arrest me. They ask me questions, but I have a receipt. I could not have been murdering that old woman down the street at 4:45 PM (Daylight Savings Time) because I was at Quiznos™ buying my favorite meal – a Peppercorn™ Steakhouse™ Sandwhich™ with a side of Au Jus™, a bag of Sun Chips™, Harvest Cheddar™ Flavor, and a bottle of Diet Mountain Dew™. I have a receipt to prove it too. I hold onto it just for moments like these. They let me go, profusely apologize, say they mistaken me for the suspect, another very handsome and masculine man. I thank them for the backwards compliment and bid them Godspeed on their quest to find the Murderer. Of course, I can read, unlike most cops, so I already know that it is Raskolinikov that murdered the old woman. They should be looking for a Russian, but they are in-a-rush to arrest some black dude who is trying to spread the word on his newest mixtape.

You get your receipt from the DMV lady, and you realize that her selfless actions have potentially saved you from being arrested and instead have contributed to mobilized, institutional racism, and that touches you deeply, unless you are an ethnic minority. That is true love.

She (back in the Theatre) grabs you down there and gently, almost a moan into your ear: Oh, Oh, Oh, O-Reilly Auto Parts. My name is not really Reilly but that is okay because I do not know her name either. She offers to leave the theater and go to her house. I agree and we get up to leave. That is how it smells inside the Flower Shoppe.

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I continue on, looking at various things and admiring the art that I see around me. More Greco-Roman busts that are representative of the poisons of Capitalistic Society and the need for multiple movements to bring about the legalization of various genders and sexual orientations that are not represented in a court of law – no taxation without representation, right? The next piece I come to in the Flower Shoppe looks like this:

NAME: リサフランクCOSTANZA / 現代のコンピュー
PRICE: $45

This piece features the well-known internet meme of the "Costanza Face" with an artistic, Flower Shoppe Twist. Of course, the presence of the Windows™ 95™ Logo is almost certainly a protest against Transnational-Corporations who are transitioning from Male to Female or vice-versa – they say, "Corporations are not people, they cannot be transitioning gender.". According to Citizens United, they are – Checkmate, (WHITE) men. You now have to support them as they are part of a nonpriveleged, oppressed-for-simply-existing class in Society.

I finish my day at the Flower Shoppe with a hot dog™ and a soda. I have had a very productive day, merely looking at all the wares they have to offer. If I were not in crippling poverty, I would buy more of said wares. Of course, In my purchasing of Art™ and financial contributions to Art Institutions and of this Shoppe, I have ironically countered my own protests, as I support the capitalist machine that I hate with my own money to buy things that show how much of a free thinking, marxist-inclined protestor of modern society I am.

Ok, that's it. If it is shit, offer a way to improve.

>>8830657
It's shit and I don't want to offer you a way to improve.

>>8830800
thanks for reading it at least

drink paint thinner

>>8830878
I wish

>>8830616
Trying waaaay too hard. Less pandering to /lit/ would be nice. Try to be more authentic next time.

>>8831902
Oh and it's shit, btw.

it's bad, and it's a shame because there's actually something interesting about including the vaporwave aesthetic in literature.

get out pls