The Tornado-ing of a Hula-Hooping Baby (a Memory) *Language*

I speak in voices. They come to me, like a natural disaster spiraling through. I was fifteen and in a state of moral shock when another voice came tornado-ing in me, also spiraling guilt (survivors) like icing.
It perched me on my couch with popcorn because Katie, that can’t make you fat. And I ditched the popcorn on the stained end-table pretty fast when I started watching the documentary (don't want to get sick), which was called God Grew Tired of Us but which I renamed Us Grew Tired of God-probably more accurate in the long-run although who knows?
So I’m watching and the flickering light is becoming a tornado of voice on my face until I blister and burn. Fast fact: boys get lost-dead.
Getting lost-dead was maybe the voice, I thought, but it hurt so badly to be in the middle of that tornado, especially when one of the lost-dead boys ate butter and thought it was soap. I’d have thought the butter was a little square pile of hell, or heaven, because Katie that can make you fat. So I kept on feeling the voice which was definitely trying to tell me something.
My ex-Pastor told me about his calling (in a blue ski-jacket beside a light pole) and this seemed almost as impressive so I treated it like a Tornado-ing call to Arms. Not God arms because fuck you did read the pseudo-title of my/the documentary, right?
I started to eat little square packages of hell, call it butter, get lost-dead.
The tornado-ing call to Arms was still whipping around me, around my middle like a hula-hoop or a baby, so I tried hard as I could to frequent coffee shops and the Nickelodeon Theatre downtown.
Never definitely quite worked out so hula-hooping tornado-baby stayed put.
And then like a year later I’m reading Cosmo in the back of Books-A-Million, the UK version because somehow that’ll be better if I get caught, and it’s not like I’m the only one although Katie that won’t make you any less fat. Somehow the Nick and coffee shops have gotten lost-dead buried under a pile of tornadoes.
Hurricane-voices have the most ability to get me un-lost-dead so I get all inspired by gayness and start up this holy shit you (you, blinking) phase, which basically is a hurricane-version of the tornado-hula-hooping baby Call to Arms.
Swearing with my black cat asleep next to me, my dog accidently petting me with her paw that I’ll frequent coffee shops and feel the hurricane-voice New Orleans-ing my stomach Katie that won’t make you fat. Praying to Us Grew Tired of God’s God that I’ll never get lost-dead. Weeping.