What don't I understand? I could write a book.
People always say that. That they could write a book about the things they don't know. That they could write a book about what they don't understand. That they could write a book.
Me? I can't write anything about what I don't understand. I don't know it, I don't know where to start. For instance, here are some things I can't write about:
-Life Goals
Depends on the day. A general theme is there, but, it's nothing definite.
Now, maybe this here is an opening chapter. In the book of shit I don't know. And tomorrow, I'll find out something else I don't know. Singletons in programming? I know they exist. That's chapter two.
-Chapter Three
Is about dragons, and what kind of tooth paste they use. I don't have a clue. But judging based on the term 'dragon breath', I'm guessing they don't floss.
-Chapter Four
Will go on to talk in depth about how I'm not really sure what chapter four is about. It was originally going to be about complex origami and math, but then I read a little about that, and thought it was too much to not know. So I tried to write it about the manufacture of plastic forks and spoons, but Google screwed that all up. I could then only move on to how I don't know what polypropylene or polystyrene actually are. Then I started looking that up, and then it became apparent that I'd just never know what this chapter was about.
How does it end? It doesn't. This book will never end, it can't be written. Or, maybe, I'm not sure. Maybe it can always be written.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Narrator Battle
She walked to the store.
她走路到商店了。
She wanted a very red apple.
她要了一个很红色的苹果。
She took the apple to the register.
她...
《hold on a second buddy. I don't know the word for register, and you know that. What are you doing here?》 (Sorry, should she steal the apple then?) 《if you can say that.》(Fine.)
She stole the apple.
她把苹果偷走了。
(Wait a second. I don't really know what you're saying, but '苹果' is the only thing that's the same. I'm pretty sure I said, 'She stole the apple.' Not 'nonsense apple nonsense nonsense.' 《It's the same. Trust me. Like, just continue the story.》(Fine.)
She ate the apple.
她吃了。她觉得苹果很好吃了。
(That was definitely two sentences. Are you sure you're translating this right?) 《Yeah, she ate the apple, can we move on?》(Fine.)
She returned to the store.
她没再去到了商店。
She wanted a very blue apple.
他一定不想了一个很蓝色的苹果。
(Alright, screw you, I just got a translator, SHE definitely did want a blue apple.) 《Why? That's not a thing. And aren't people people? So what if it's a boy or a girl who doesn't want the abomination of an apple.》She wanted the apple! That's what I said, that's what you say. That's how this works.) 《How much does your translator cost?》 (...) ($50 an hour) 《I'll do it for half that much.》(Fine.)《Salary*》(Salary for you, fine for me.)
She ate the apple like a bear.
苹果跟灰熊一样吃了。
(Okay. What does that say then?) 《She eats the apple the same way she eats a bear.》(Why... why does it say that?) 《That's what you said.》(No it isn't.) 《Yes it is.》
(...)
(...)
(You're fired.) 《I quit.》 (Fine.) 《Attractive*》
她走路到商店了。
She wanted a very red apple.
她要了一个很红色的苹果。
She took the apple to the register.
她...
《hold on a second buddy. I don't know the word for register, and you know that. What are you doing here?》 (Sorry, should she steal the apple then?) 《if you can say that.》(Fine.)
She stole the apple.
她把苹果偷走了。
(Wait a second. I don't really know what you're saying, but '苹果' is the only thing that's the same. I'm pretty sure I said, 'She stole the apple.' Not 'nonsense apple nonsense nonsense.' 《It's the same. Trust me. Like, just continue the story.》(Fine.)
She ate the apple.
她吃了。她觉得苹果很好吃了。
(That was definitely two sentences. Are you sure you're translating this right?) 《Yeah, she ate the apple, can we move on?》(Fine.)
She returned to the store.
她没再去到了商店。
She wanted a very blue apple.
他一定不想了一个很蓝色的苹果。
(Alright, screw you, I just got a translator, SHE definitely did want a blue apple.) 《Why? That's not a thing. And aren't people people? So what if it's a boy or a girl who doesn't want the abomination of an apple.》She wanted the apple! That's what I said, that's what you say. That's how this works.) 《How much does your translator cost?》 (...) ($50 an hour) 《I'll do it for half that much.》(Fine.)《Salary*》(Salary for you, fine for me.)
She ate the apple like a bear.
苹果跟灰熊一样吃了。
(Okay. What does that say then?) 《She eats the apple the same way she eats a bear.》(Why... why does it say that?) 《That's what you said.》(No it isn't.) 《Yes it is.》
(...)
(...)
(You're fired.) 《I quit.》 (Fine.) 《Attractive*》
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Sometimes Breaking Things
"Just leave me alone." Kelly said.
She really wanted to be left alone. She thought that was clear, and yet. Keith slid down onto the bed she was laying on. He leaned over towards her, and put his hand on her thigh.
With all of her energy she didn't jerk away from him right then. "I'm pretty sure I just said leave me alone." she repeated. She picked up a book on the nightstand and pretended to start reading it. Hoping, obviously, that he would see she was busy and move on.
"Hey." he began. He looked in her direction, and looked a little hurt that she didn't look back.
She felt bad for the look on his face, which made her nearly explode. "Get out of this room, immediately." She wasn't yelling. She was barely speaking between lips that weren't parted. Her eyes were focusing on something distant.
Keith got up and walked out of the room. She could hear him in the kitchen, clinking dishes, making something. Opening the refrigerator.
Kelly held onto the book, squeezing with all her might. She wanted to throw it, but throwing the book wouldn't make Keith less of an idiot. So she squeezed it. Full of emotion that had no where to go, and no use.
He had, previously, and from now on always, ruined her day when he said, "I could love anyone, but I choose you, because you're not the best, but you're my favorite."
'I know' she thought. 'I know I'm not the best, what kind of idiot thinks they're really the best? Obviously I'm not the best. But I don't need to be reminded by the people who love me. Oh look at me, a broken little amusement. Not good for anything, but his favorite, and here I am, fucking sobbing in a bed.' She was rocking between pulling the sheets over her and stretching out flexing every muscle in her body.
Then there was Keith in the kitchen. Making a sandwich for Kelly.
He didn't know why he talked. His words, so noble in his mind, got garbled on their way out. He wanted to convey a deep love, but one that he chose to have. He wanted Kelly to know that he really liked her better than everyone else, despite her imperfections. He felt like she probably should have seen his better meaning, but whenever there are two meanings she drifted towards the negative one.
He walked back into the bedroom. He looked at her, and set a pickle and ham sandwich on toasted bread with mustard. "Weirdo" he said and smiled, then set the sandwich down and left.
She then lost her control, and broke the plate against the wall, her favorite and sandwich and ceramic pieces falling to the ground. she knew he'd hear it, because he wasn't deaf. That she knew he'd be hurt at her refusal of the olive branch, and the catharsis from breaking a plate made her feel a little better. She got up and went to the shower.
She really wanted to be left alone. She thought that was clear, and yet. Keith slid down onto the bed she was laying on. He leaned over towards her, and put his hand on her thigh.
With all of her energy she didn't jerk away from him right then. "I'm pretty sure I just said leave me alone." she repeated. She picked up a book on the nightstand and pretended to start reading it. Hoping, obviously, that he would see she was busy and move on.
"Hey." he began. He looked in her direction, and looked a little hurt that she didn't look back.
She felt bad for the look on his face, which made her nearly explode. "Get out of this room, immediately." She wasn't yelling. She was barely speaking between lips that weren't parted. Her eyes were focusing on something distant.
Keith got up and walked out of the room. She could hear him in the kitchen, clinking dishes, making something. Opening the refrigerator.
Kelly held onto the book, squeezing with all her might. She wanted to throw it, but throwing the book wouldn't make Keith less of an idiot. So she squeezed it. Full of emotion that had no where to go, and no use.
He had, previously, and from now on always, ruined her day when he said, "I could love anyone, but I choose you, because you're not the best, but you're my favorite."
'I know' she thought. 'I know I'm not the best, what kind of idiot thinks they're really the best? Obviously I'm not the best. But I don't need to be reminded by the people who love me. Oh look at me, a broken little amusement. Not good for anything, but his favorite, and here I am, fucking sobbing in a bed.' She was rocking between pulling the sheets over her and stretching out flexing every muscle in her body.
Then there was Keith in the kitchen. Making a sandwich for Kelly.
He didn't know why he talked. His words, so noble in his mind, got garbled on their way out. He wanted to convey a deep love, but one that he chose to have. He wanted Kelly to know that he really liked her better than everyone else, despite her imperfections. He felt like she probably should have seen his better meaning, but whenever there are two meanings she drifted towards the negative one.
He walked back into the bedroom. He looked at her, and set a pickle and ham sandwich on toasted bread with mustard. "Weirdo" he said and smiled, then set the sandwich down and left.
She then lost her control, and broke the plate against the wall, her favorite and sandwich and ceramic pieces falling to the ground. she knew he'd hear it, because he wasn't deaf. That she knew he'd be hurt at her refusal of the olive branch, and the catharsis from breaking a plate made her feel a little better. She got up and went to the shower.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Learning Chinese
I've been studying Chinese a lot recently, and what the best study methods are, and generally how to be a good student. Here are some of the main points summed up for you:
-A good teacher can be worth their weight in gold. You've just got to send the ransom notes to the right people.
-Spaced Repetition Software (SARS) can be a great tool for learning vocabulary. The idea behind it is that there is an ideal time sort of exponentially in the future to review something you've recently learned. So, you review it after a day, then two days, then a week, then two weeks, and so on until it's permanently ingrained in your long term memory. I've also learned it's a terrible way to schedule meals.
-If you don't get enough rest and exercise you won't be a good language learner. That's what my personal trainer down at Spend Ca$h told me. They told me that weight lifting is absolutely, scientifically, the best way to boost memory power. Lifting weights is like lifting weights for your brain.
-One word: task inertia. It's like this, starting a task is the hardest part, after that point though, you'll carry on working until someone in the house turns on the television. At which point you'll watch Bob's Burgers, then Will and Grace, then Wallace and Grommit, then SpongeBob Squarepants, then the new Powerpuff Girls, then The Tick, then Beastwars, then Scrubs, then How I Met Your Mother, and before you know it you'll have watched a lot of television.
-Children can learn languages better than adults. Children can also poop their pants and look smug about it way better than adults.
That's what I've learned thus far, and I'll keep you updated as to the new information I'm given when I'm given it. It's like, wooo information is here, and you're getting it 'cuz I'm givin it.
-A good teacher can be worth their weight in gold. You've just got to send the ransom notes to the right people.
-Spaced Repetition Software (SARS) can be a great tool for learning vocabulary. The idea behind it is that there is an ideal time sort of exponentially in the future to review something you've recently learned. So, you review it after a day, then two days, then a week, then two weeks, and so on until it's permanently ingrained in your long term memory. I've also learned it's a terrible way to schedule meals.
-If you don't get enough rest and exercise you won't be a good language learner. That's what my personal trainer down at Spend Ca$h told me. They told me that weight lifting is absolutely, scientifically, the best way to boost memory power. Lifting weights is like lifting weights for your brain.
-One word: task inertia. It's like this, starting a task is the hardest part, after that point though, you'll carry on working until someone in the house turns on the television. At which point you'll watch Bob's Burgers, then Will and Grace, then Wallace and Grommit, then SpongeBob Squarepants, then the new Powerpuff Girls, then The Tick, then Beastwars, then Scrubs, then How I Met Your Mother, and before you know it you'll have watched a lot of television.
-Children can learn languages better than adults. Children can also poop their pants and look smug about it way better than adults.
That's what I've learned thus far, and I'll keep you updated as to the new information I'm given when I'm given it. It's like, wooo information is here, and you're getting it 'cuz I'm givin it.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Going Out
Peter had been trying, unsuccessfully, to get his girlfriend to go out to the bar with him. He felt, when in a committed relationship, or at the very least a relationship where he'd feel bad about telling his girlfriend about sleeping with her sister, that it was hard to keep the spontineity alive. And the potted plants alive. And the hamster.
"If we go out we're going to have spend money." Sandra said. Sitting on a couch, buffing her nails and seeming quite relaxed.
"Or mug people" Peter offered. He was putting on his shoes.
Sandra rolled her eyes. "Mugging people is hard." She said. "And besides, getting dressed is a hassle. Just like... something else that's a hassle."
"Come on, we haven't been out in forever." Peter said. Peter picked up his keys off their hook by the door. He was now just standing by the door, occasionally glancing up from his phone and the time.
"Well, what if guys like, try to pick me up? Or buy me drinks? You don't like it when they buy me drinks." Sandra said.
It was true Peter thought. Boys at bars would buy her drinks, hoping for her phone number, or sex, or ballet lessons. She really had to stop wearing leotards out to the bar.
"Oh, what if I wear my leotard? I love that. I'll go get ready." Sandra said. She nearly skipped towards the bedroom.
"Actually honey." Peter said. He took off his shoes, and sat down on the couch. He began buffing his nails and looking quite comfortable. "Maybe we should stay in tonight. Who wants to deal with those creepy guys staring at you with their mouth agape."
"Honey, we've talked about that. You have a medical condition, it's okay that your mouth hangs open." Sandra said from the bedroom. She was applying lipstick to her upper lip. She pressed her lips together. "Are you driving?"
"Oh. Uh my car's in the shop." Peter said. He took off his shoes, and pulled a blanket off the back of the couch. He turned on Netflix and selected 'Meet Joe Black.' "Besides, I forgot I have an early meeting. If I drink tonight it could affect my performance."
"There's always viagra." Sandra said coming out of the bedroom.
"I'm just going to stay in tonight." Peter said. Brad Pitt was smiling on the television, drinking coffee and being charming. "Besides, you can never be sure about what kind of girl you pick up at your apartment, whether she has all her teeth."
Sandra showed her teeth in what could have been a smile, if it weren't a growl.
"Or whether or not she finished high school." Peter said.
Sandra sat down next to Peter on the couch. "Yeah, but at least you don't have to worry about them putting out." She lifted up the blanket and settled in next to him.
Onward the night went, with bouts of Anthony Hopkins and extravagant parties.
"If we go out we're going to have spend money." Sandra said. Sitting on a couch, buffing her nails and seeming quite relaxed.
"Or mug people" Peter offered. He was putting on his shoes.
Sandra rolled her eyes. "Mugging people is hard." She said. "And besides, getting dressed is a hassle. Just like... something else that's a hassle."
"Come on, we haven't been out in forever." Peter said. Peter picked up his keys off their hook by the door. He was now just standing by the door, occasionally glancing up from his phone and the time.
"Well, what if guys like, try to pick me up? Or buy me drinks? You don't like it when they buy me drinks." Sandra said.
It was true Peter thought. Boys at bars would buy her drinks, hoping for her phone number, or sex, or ballet lessons. She really had to stop wearing leotards out to the bar.
"Oh, what if I wear my leotard? I love that. I'll go get ready." Sandra said. She nearly skipped towards the bedroom.
"Actually honey." Peter said. He took off his shoes, and sat down on the couch. He began buffing his nails and looking quite comfortable. "Maybe we should stay in tonight. Who wants to deal with those creepy guys staring at you with their mouth agape."
"Honey, we've talked about that. You have a medical condition, it's okay that your mouth hangs open." Sandra said from the bedroom. She was applying lipstick to her upper lip. She pressed her lips together. "Are you driving?"
"Oh. Uh my car's in the shop." Peter said. He took off his shoes, and pulled a blanket off the back of the couch. He turned on Netflix and selected 'Meet Joe Black.' "Besides, I forgot I have an early meeting. If I drink tonight it could affect my performance."
"There's always viagra." Sandra said coming out of the bedroom.
"I'm just going to stay in tonight." Peter said. Brad Pitt was smiling on the television, drinking coffee and being charming. "Besides, you can never be sure about what kind of girl you pick up at your apartment, whether she has all her teeth."
Sandra showed her teeth in what could have been a smile, if it weren't a growl.
"Or whether or not she finished high school." Peter said.
Sandra sat down next to Peter on the couch. "Yeah, but at least you don't have to worry about them putting out." She lifted up the blanket and settled in next to him.
Onward the night went, with bouts of Anthony Hopkins and extravagant parties.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Boulder and Mountain
Up at the top of a mountain there was a large boulder. For as long as Boulder could remember, it had been part of Mountain's life. Big, strong, it held up a lot of weight, sometimes animals, sometimes trees. Recently, Mountain and Boulder were drifting apart. Slowly at first, but now more and more, it was obvious they wouldn't be together forever. Anyone who looked up at the mountainside would see.
Boulder and Mountain were in the arduous process of separating their things subtly for the imminent moving out. Mountain was slowly sneaking the boulder's CDs into its own collection. Always feigning surprise, "Oh you found your Tragic Kingdom CD in my Macbook Pro, at work at? I must have borrowed it last week, I'm sure I told you. Did you forget?" and so on.
Then one day, without fanfare, it was time.
A boulder crashing down the side of a mountain is a sight to see. It can cause millions of dollars worth of damage, and untold mental anguish knowing that if it had came down seconds later, or just two feet to the left, you could've become the favorite child. But, as it stands, your sister was unscathed.
"A small detour s'all. Then we'd still have grandpa, and you'd be gone, like you want." Sarah said to Beatrice.
"It's not my fault he was up on the roof! I do want to leave this stupid house, and everyone in it." Beatrice started to pout. "Mommy!"
No one came. The two sisters were alone in the house.
Sarah, gazing at the wreckage, the trajectory of the large rock, through their lives and hallway obvious as it was, saw a somehow unscathed pamphlet sitting on a mostly destroyed table.
"Rubber soled shoes provide the best traction on a roof." It helpfully stated. However, it unhelpfully left out that they provided minimal protection against oncoming boulders, and if you happened to be on a roof with your back turned and music playing in your headphones, your chance of survival is about as good as a sweet and helpful uncredited astronaut in a science fictional show.
Even though it was a small town, most people didn't hear or know about the incident. They had their own lives, and their own worries. They had no direct relation to the people who lived on the hill. So they went on about their lives. Because people are unobservant. Because most creatures don't realize what lines are being crossed, and what irrevocable consequences are thundering towards them.
Most people don't realize they're living consequences that have already come. They're constantly surprised, by what should be, the obvious next event in the narrative that is their life.
Boulder and Mountain were in the arduous process of separating their things subtly for the imminent moving out. Mountain was slowly sneaking the boulder's CDs into its own collection. Always feigning surprise, "Oh you found your Tragic Kingdom CD in my Macbook Pro, at work at? I must have borrowed it last week, I'm sure I told you. Did you forget?" and so on.
Then one day, without fanfare, it was time.
A boulder crashing down the side of a mountain is a sight to see. It can cause millions of dollars worth of damage, and untold mental anguish knowing that if it had came down seconds later, or just two feet to the left, you could've become the favorite child. But, as it stands, your sister was unscathed.
"A small detour s'all. Then we'd still have grandpa, and you'd be gone, like you want." Sarah said to Beatrice.
"It's not my fault he was up on the roof! I do want to leave this stupid house, and everyone in it." Beatrice started to pout. "Mommy!"
No one came. The two sisters were alone in the house.
Sarah, gazing at the wreckage, the trajectory of the large rock, through their lives and hallway obvious as it was, saw a somehow unscathed pamphlet sitting on a mostly destroyed table.
"Rubber soled shoes provide the best traction on a roof." It helpfully stated. However, it unhelpfully left out that they provided minimal protection against oncoming boulders, and if you happened to be on a roof with your back turned and music playing in your headphones, your chance of survival is about as good as a sweet and helpful uncredited astronaut in a science fictional show.
Even though it was a small town, most people didn't hear or know about the incident. They had their own lives, and their own worries. They had no direct relation to the people who lived on the hill. So they went on about their lives. Because people are unobservant. Because most creatures don't realize what lines are being crossed, and what irrevocable consequences are thundering towards them.
Most people don't realize they're living consequences that have already come. They're constantly surprised, by what should be, the obvious next event in the narrative that is their life.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
A Boy and His Food
8:13am. Cereal time. A slurry of snapping, crackling, and popping pours from a plastic bag inside of a carboard box into a bowl. Sugar lies in wait. It was a trap all along, 2% milkfat liquid drowns all the individual krispies. Now the race begins, to see how many pieces can be enjoyed before sogginess overtakes them.
William pushes his bowl a little further towards the center of the table, to indicate that he is victorious. He looks at his phone. The screen is black. No one has sent him any messages. He wondered about this. He thought, 'I'll call up Gail and ask why no one's messaged me. Maybe propose my eternal love for her. Probably just ask about the messaging though.'
He dials slowly, thinking about all the possible outcomes. 'Maybe she'll ask to go out. See a movie, I haven't seen Her yet. Maybe she'll ask to see Her. Then I can joke about how I'm not a girl and she shouldn't call me her. But, maybe she won't want to go out. Should I ask her out? Just coffee. Well, maybe just tea, she might like tea. Okay. Right.'
She didn't answer. When voice mail clicked on William got scared and hung up the phone. This made him feel like eating.
A cutting board is on the counter, on top of it two slices of 15-grain bread. William tries to think of fifteen different grains. 'I wonder if they count one grain twice. Like, yeah, we totally put fifteen grains in there, five of which are wheat, ten of which are also wheat.'
A tomato is cut into slices, and layered onto the bread. Then the slices get taken right back off, because honestly, who puts tomatoes on the bread first. Back in his right mind, William puts his choice of meat, cajun spiced chicken, on the sandwich. He Then puts on thinly sliced swiss cheese. On top of that goes a hand full of baby spinach. He tops it off with the tomatoes to keep the spinach from falling off, and what does fall off he voraciously stuffs into his mouth and chews. Ignoring the fact that it's only 9:36am, and he should probably not be eating again so soon. On top of the tomatoes he puts a zig-zag of mustard, and on top of that he paints a smiley face with hot sauce.
His sandwich gone, his cutting board full of crumbs and new nicks, he stumbles off to his bedroom.
'I'm so tired' he thinks to himself. Then he thinks, 'Can I think to someone else? Maybe that's what talking is. Talking is like thinking to someone else.' He then lays down on his bed. 'Or does he lie down? He's never particularly sure. Laying and lying about the bedroom, lying about who he's layed with. Lei'd with? Only in Hawaii.' That goes on for what feels like hours, with intermittent bouts of staring at the wall and the ceiling.
10:42am, and all of the sudden William didn't want food so much as a delicious early death. He cracked open a beer, started drinking that while frying butter on a pan. He didn't want to fry anything, he just liked melting butter on a pan. Coffee was brewing in his pot, he'd mix it with his beer, and see if he would vomit or not. His money was on not. But he didn't think he'd enjoy it. The beer coffee mixture that is, he'd probably enjoy the not vomiting the same way he usually enjoyed not doing things that weren't pleasant. 'Maybe I'll spend the rest of today enjoying not getting shot and mugged. But, that seems like a dangerous thing to try, if I screw that up I'll be really particularly unhappy. Maybe I should aim lower, I'll just enjoy not having any rectal exams from doctors. No sir, I haven't had a surprise rectal exam from a doctor since that time Mr. Allen visited when I was sick from school for the 12th day in a row. I was never sick again. Okay, well I was definitely sick again, but I didn't miss a day of school.'
All that food and thinking, and William hadn't even made it halfway through the day yet. 11:42am. 'Huh. At least 42 is a good number. Now do I make a wish, or go for walk?'
he wondered.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Morning
'Hey can't wait, I'll see you in 45 minutes, okay' Gerald looked at the glowing light that was his phone. He squinted at the light, and something that vaguely resembled '8:23am' was staring back at him. That couldn't be right he thought. That was two hours and thirty-seven minutes before clocks even existed.
He thought possibly something important was about to happen, which he would boldly face after five more minutes of sleep.
The next time he was conscious he glanced at where he thought his phone was. Nothing was there. He looked over at his computer monitor, and saw a clock there. '11:37am' is what it said. Gerald felt around for his phone. Swept his arm without looking over the right side of his bed, like he was confused about how to make snow angels, but wasn't going to let that stop him from trying. He snow angel'd under his pillow, then the same thing on the other side of his bed. He nearly fell off, but recovered just in time by grabbing onto his end table. Then thanked his incredible strength and exercise routine, for his ability to, slightly more slowly than gravity wanted, hit the floor.
"Ugh." Gerald eloquently stated. He went to look at his phone, and stared at his empty palm for about 30 seconds before realizing that his phone was not there. Through some feat of balance and panache, he got up onto his hands and knees, and then when his right hand got distracted by something under his bed and gave up supporting him he smashed his nose into the bottom of the bed frame.
"Shuftfuf." He said.
He sat back and thought for a minute.
He woke up when he hit the back of his head on the end table again.
This time there was someone standing in his doorway.
Gerald was up with a jolt. "Sorry, so sorry." He started falling about his room and closet throwing clothes in some rough resemblance of 'on'. "I'll be three minutes. Less. I'll be less than three minutes."
Haley had a look that seemed to say, 'I'm sad, but I expected this of you'. Well, she had a face, and since she said "It's okay, I expected this, honestly." Gerald made the logical leap that her face was having related sentiments.
"What? I'm ready. I'm done, let's go." Gerald started moving towards the door.
"Gerry." Haley said. "It's okay. I'm going to get my things, and I'm going to go, okay?"
Gerald meant to say, 'No, it's not okay. I'm tired of fucking up, I need you, fuck me, I'm sorry.' But what he said, and really it was the same thing anyways, was 'I'll uh. Bye then.'
After she got her things and left, Gerald somehow found the strength to go to the kitchen, though he wasn't sure what for. He saw his phone sitting on the counter. Looking at his screen he saw a message, 'Maybe after we sign our new lease, we can get lunch?'
He wrote a response, 'It's funny, in the way where no one laughs, like me doing stand-up, that two hours ago the person who sent me that message existed, and was real. But now, not long later, she stopped existing, and someone I don't know took her place.' He didn't send the message. But he kept writing variations on that and not sending them. He felt strongly like taking a nap.
He thought possibly something important was about to happen, which he would boldly face after five more minutes of sleep.
The next time he was conscious he glanced at where he thought his phone was. Nothing was there. He looked over at his computer monitor, and saw a clock there. '11:37am' is what it said. Gerald felt around for his phone. Swept his arm without looking over the right side of his bed, like he was confused about how to make snow angels, but wasn't going to let that stop him from trying. He snow angel'd under his pillow, then the same thing on the other side of his bed. He nearly fell off, but recovered just in time by grabbing onto his end table. Then thanked his incredible strength and exercise routine, for his ability to, slightly more slowly than gravity wanted, hit the floor.
"Ugh." Gerald eloquently stated. He went to look at his phone, and stared at his empty palm for about 30 seconds before realizing that his phone was not there. Through some feat of balance and panache, he got up onto his hands and knees, and then when his right hand got distracted by something under his bed and gave up supporting him he smashed his nose into the bottom of the bed frame.
"Shuftfuf." He said.
He sat back and thought for a minute.
He woke up when he hit the back of his head on the end table again.
This time there was someone standing in his doorway.
Gerald was up with a jolt. "Sorry, so sorry." He started falling about his room and closet throwing clothes in some rough resemblance of 'on'. "I'll be three minutes. Less. I'll be less than three minutes."
Haley had a look that seemed to say, 'I'm sad, but I expected this of you'. Well, she had a face, and since she said "It's okay, I expected this, honestly." Gerald made the logical leap that her face was having related sentiments.
"What? I'm ready. I'm done, let's go." Gerald started moving towards the door.
"Gerry." Haley said. "It's okay. I'm going to get my things, and I'm going to go, okay?"
Gerald meant to say, 'No, it's not okay. I'm tired of fucking up, I need you, fuck me, I'm sorry.' But what he said, and really it was the same thing anyways, was 'I'll uh. Bye then.'
After she got her things and left, Gerald somehow found the strength to go to the kitchen, though he wasn't sure what for. He saw his phone sitting on the counter. Looking at his screen he saw a message, 'Maybe after we sign our new lease, we can get lunch?'
He wrote a response, 'It's funny, in the way where no one laughs, like me doing stand-up, that two hours ago the person who sent me that message existed, and was real. But now, not long later, she stopped existing, and someone I don't know took her place.' He didn't send the message. But he kept writing variations on that and not sending them. He felt strongly like taking a nap.
Friday, February 7, 2014
How Much Do I Love You? Let Me Tally the Ways
Shelby Fidelity, a name not a description, was blinking at the closest of something like 10 to the 24th of fiery balls of gas above and beyond the sky. Her blinking was sort of like winking, but with two eyes, and no sexual underlining. Well. No overt sexual underlining. Well. So she was totally winking at the sun, and using both her eyes, but the sun didn't care. The sun hated Shelby, and expressed its hate for her, through her own lack of melanin.
Shelby was a fine person, if you can call any person fine, and yet, a lot of people didn't like Shelby.
Simon, a divorce lawyer who had gotten 6.25 out of 10 clients at least 80% of whatever was rightfully someone's before divorce to be entirely theirs after divorce, was not one of the people who didn't like Shelby.
He was one of the people who thought that if, under his watch, Shelby was shot, thrown in a trunk, and then driven across country boundaries, left in a desert, and told to walk, that he would probably have himself a honey ham and swiss cheese sandwich, with lettuce, mayo, and half a tomato, cut slightly too large, followed by a McDonald's size giant Coke, followed by a Burger King sized hit of heroin, then, if he was feeling up to it alert the authorities, most likely though a passive aggressive complaint letter that would look something like,
"Dear Chief of Police Benjamin R Fidelity,
I hope this message finds you well, though probably it did a piss poor job finding you, very similar to the job you did in finding little Patrice back in '86, and was probably carried most of the way by an underemployed mailman, and then dropped into a box full of similarly addressed letters, and handed off to a mail room attendant, who, also underemployed, arduously sorted through each and every paper looking for a check, or soft warm cash to steal, not finding any, finally put this hand written stamped envelope into a small rectangular container, with your name printed, on it, and then went about the rest of their day, wondering why they couldn't get someone to let them waste their time in their own way, and still pay them a minuscule amount of money.
I think you're a good for nothing, lousy, over-promoted meter-maid, only without popularity and kind-regard those workers earn night and day.
I think your wife, my sister by birth, but an idiot by her own right, is a fine woman, who was led astray in her formative years, is probably right now planning on murdering you, with diagrams and blue prints spread out on your desk at home, and even if she laid out the plan, and posted it on the community bulletin board, no one in your department would be able to make heads or tails of what could possibly have caused you to be three and a half years late for the Monday morning staff meeting after she has killed you.
I also think you dress poorly for a man of your stature.
Sincerely,
Without love,
-Simon.
ps: You're an illiterate.
pps: Maybe someone named Shelby is missing. Might have been in the trunk of a 1997 Saturn S-Series, license plate ETY-9034, heading south on rt 387 at approximately 12:05pm February 22nd, 2013.
ppps: That means you can't read."
that Shelby was missing.
Shelby was the woman that Simon was going to, in a matter of two and a half hours from now, in front of a large group of his own family and friends, vow to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, though ideally less in the sickness, and not at all, honestly, in health.
He kept leaving the keys in his ignition, and the trunk open, but so far no one had taken the bait, or even read the note meticulously written with cutout letters from magazines with instructions on what they could potentially do with his future Misses, and how surely it was a great resume builder for many a budding killers and crooks.
He wasn't a man who could let go of hope, and began to make a ham and swiss cheese sandwich.
Shelby was a fine person, if you can call any person fine, and yet, a lot of people didn't like Shelby.
Simon, a divorce lawyer who had gotten 6.25 out of 10 clients at least 80% of whatever was rightfully someone's before divorce to be entirely theirs after divorce, was not one of the people who didn't like Shelby.
He was one of the people who thought that if, under his watch, Shelby was shot, thrown in a trunk, and then driven across country boundaries, left in a desert, and told to walk, that he would probably have himself a honey ham and swiss cheese sandwich, with lettuce, mayo, and half a tomato, cut slightly too large, followed by a McDonald's size giant Coke, followed by a Burger King sized hit of heroin, then, if he was feeling up to it alert the authorities, most likely though a passive aggressive complaint letter that would look something like,
"Dear Chief of Police Benjamin R Fidelity,
I hope this message finds you well, though probably it did a piss poor job finding you, very similar to the job you did in finding little Patrice back in '86, and was probably carried most of the way by an underemployed mailman, and then dropped into a box full of similarly addressed letters, and handed off to a mail room attendant, who, also underemployed, arduously sorted through each and every paper looking for a check, or soft warm cash to steal, not finding any, finally put this hand written stamped envelope into a small rectangular container, with your name printed, on it, and then went about the rest of their day, wondering why they couldn't get someone to let them waste their time in their own way, and still pay them a minuscule amount of money.
I think you're a good for nothing, lousy, over-promoted meter-maid, only without popularity and kind-regard those workers earn night and day.
I think your wife, my sister by birth, but an idiot by her own right, is a fine woman, who was led astray in her formative years, is probably right now planning on murdering you, with diagrams and blue prints spread out on your desk at home, and even if she laid out the plan, and posted it on the community bulletin board, no one in your department would be able to make heads or tails of what could possibly have caused you to be three and a half years late for the Monday morning staff meeting after she has killed you.
I also think you dress poorly for a man of your stature.
Sincerely,
Without love,
-Simon.
ps: You're an illiterate.
pps: Maybe someone named Shelby is missing. Might have been in the trunk of a 1997 Saturn S-Series, license plate ETY-9034, heading south on rt 387 at approximately 12:05pm February 22nd, 2013.
ppps: That means you can't read."
that Shelby was missing.
Shelby was the woman that Simon was going to, in a matter of two and a half hours from now, in front of a large group of his own family and friends, vow to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, though ideally less in the sickness, and not at all, honestly, in health.
He kept leaving the keys in his ignition, and the trunk open, but so far no one had taken the bait, or even read the note meticulously written with cutout letters from magazines with instructions on what they could potentially do with his future Misses, and how surely it was a great resume builder for many a budding killers and crooks.
He wasn't a man who could let go of hope, and began to make a ham and swiss cheese sandwich.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Fish Pond
Once upon a time there was a pond, which had too much selenium in its waters. So where once fish lived happily, without skeletal deformities, they now lived a sad sad existence with crooked spines and extra fins and rewarding volunteer activities.
Phillip was a princely fish, with as much wealth, and gullibility as only royal fish could have. He was sitting in some algae, when Ezeek-eel approached him. Ezeek-eel was a small blue gill. Ezeek-eel's mouth was too far down, and his spine was crooked. He didn't believe in anything, reality included.
"Phillippppp" Ezeek-eel said. "You shouuuld go. Leaaaave herreeee."
Phillip thought about it for a moment. "I can't just leave my kingdom." He looked up towards the edges of the pond.
"Thennn. Stayyy." Ezeek-eel said.
Phillip thought about it for a moment. "I can't breath out of water." He looked up towards the edge of the pond.
"Thennn. Dieeee of physicalll malformaaationnss."
Phillip thought about it for a moment.
He jumped out of the pond, and lived the rest of his life without the toxins of the pond infecting his gills, giving him coughs and fits, and without oxygen in a palatable liquid form, died.
All his friends and family also died, albeit much later, and of physical malformations.
Phillip was a princely fish, with as much wealth, and gullibility as only royal fish could have. He was sitting in some algae, when Ezeek-eel approached him. Ezeek-eel was a small blue gill. Ezeek-eel's mouth was too far down, and his spine was crooked. He didn't believe in anything, reality included.
"Phillippppp" Ezeek-eel said. "You shouuuld go. Leaaaave herreeee."
Phillip thought about it for a moment. "I can't just leave my kingdom." He looked up towards the edges of the pond.
"Thennn. Stayyy." Ezeek-eel said.
Phillip thought about it for a moment. "I can't breath out of water." He looked up towards the edge of the pond.
"Thennn. Dieeee of physicalll malformaaationnss."
Phillip thought about it for a moment.
He jumped out of the pond, and lived the rest of his life without the toxins of the pond infecting his gills, giving him coughs and fits, and without oxygen in a palatable liquid form, died.
All his friends and family also died, albeit much later, and of physical malformations.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Office Space
"Absolutely we've got to fire him." Jacob said, patting his comb over, which obscured his shiny bald scalp, not in the slightest. "Only question..."
"Is why haven't you thrown out that atrocious desk lamp?" Kenneth, Jacob's companion, interrupted. Jacob glared at Kenneth, as if to say, "I haven't thrown out that 'atrocious' desk lamp because it's the sole redeeming quality of this office and my position."
"Only question is how." Jacob finished.
"Well, I could just throw it into the garbage. Wham bam, done and done." Kenneth responded.
"How to fire him. How to fire him was the only question." Jacob said. At this point Jacob was so frustrated with lack of progress in the conversation that he took his feet off his desk, and gave up looking superior. Well, he gave up looking superior comfortably. He was now trying to look superior with his feet on the ground, and was only really successful in looking like an awkward walrus quite enjoying a bout of indigestion.
"Well. Maybe he could just ta..." Kenneth said eyeing the green glowing object on Jacob's desk.
"Enough with the goddamn lamp Kenneth, drop the goddamn lamp." Jacob said.
Kenneth got a big smirk on his face, "Okay, I'll d...."
"Kenneth, I swear on all that is holy in this world, I will murder you if you touch that lamp physically, or verbally again." Jacob said. "Now, how do we fire him?".
Kenneth leaned back in his chair and thought for a minute.
"Stop thinking about the lamp" Jacob said. "We have important matters at hand."
Kenneth postured a look of confusion. "Lamp... I wasn't."
Jacob got up from his chair, both hands on his desk and did a great impression of a bulldog who had an ongoing fued with a mailman, and was about to enact operation: murder with an ice pick, and dispose of the body in separate trashbags buried across the city.
Kenneth looked away and towards the ground. "Well. We could ask security."
"To escort him out? That won't work, he schmoozes with them too often. They love him." Jacob sat back down in his chair.
"No, I meant we could ask security to dispose..."
"Get out of my office!" Jacob was fuming. He, in his rage and anger flipped his desk over, and all of its contents and papers flittered and fluttered to the ground, some quickly, some with a crash, some with the shattering of green lamp shade crashing down, envious of the softer more pliable objects.
"Leave the lamp! Every piece stays in this office." Jacob roared.
Kenneth dropped what he was collecting and excited the office.
Jacob sat back in his chair, and put his feet up on his overturned desk, as if everything was in optimal functioning condition. He looked quite smug.
"Is why haven't you thrown out that atrocious desk lamp?" Kenneth, Jacob's companion, interrupted. Jacob glared at Kenneth, as if to say, "I haven't thrown out that 'atrocious' desk lamp because it's the sole redeeming quality of this office and my position."
"Only question is how." Jacob finished.
"Well, I could just throw it into the garbage. Wham bam, done and done." Kenneth responded.
"How to fire him. How to fire him was the only question." Jacob said. At this point Jacob was so frustrated with lack of progress in the conversation that he took his feet off his desk, and gave up looking superior. Well, he gave up looking superior comfortably. He was now trying to look superior with his feet on the ground, and was only really successful in looking like an awkward walrus quite enjoying a bout of indigestion.
"Well. Maybe he could just ta..." Kenneth said eyeing the green glowing object on Jacob's desk.
"Enough with the goddamn lamp Kenneth, drop the goddamn lamp." Jacob said.
Kenneth got a big smirk on his face, "Okay, I'll d...."
"Kenneth, I swear on all that is holy in this world, I will murder you if you touch that lamp physically, or verbally again." Jacob said. "Now, how do we fire him?".
Kenneth leaned back in his chair and thought for a minute.
"Stop thinking about the lamp" Jacob said. "We have important matters at hand."
Kenneth postured a look of confusion. "Lamp... I wasn't."
Jacob got up from his chair, both hands on his desk and did a great impression of a bulldog who had an ongoing fued with a mailman, and was about to enact operation: murder with an ice pick, and dispose of the body in separate trashbags buried across the city.
Kenneth looked away and towards the ground. "Well. We could ask security."
"To escort him out? That won't work, he schmoozes with them too often. They love him." Jacob sat back down in his chair.
"No, I meant we could ask security to dispose..."
"Get out of my office!" Jacob was fuming. He, in his rage and anger flipped his desk over, and all of its contents and papers flittered and fluttered to the ground, some quickly, some with a crash, some with the shattering of green lamp shade crashing down, envious of the softer more pliable objects.
"Leave the lamp! Every piece stays in this office." Jacob roared.
Kenneth dropped what he was collecting and excited the office.
Jacob sat back in his chair, and put his feet up on his overturned desk, as if everything was in optimal functioning condition. He looked quite smug.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Writing Session
Gene sits on the couch with a notepad on his lap and a pen in his left hand. Francesca sits across the room in a large leather chair, laptop on lap, hands on the keyboard.
Gene is lackadaisically sitting, arguably laying, on the couch one leg propped perpendicularly upon the other. Forming an equilateral triangle where he can balance his notebook.
Francesca, or Franny, though she hates to be called Franny, sits very poised. The chair she's in seems to beckon her. It calls out, "I'm so squishy. And comfy. Lean back, rest your weary soul." Yet there she sits, ram-rod straight.
Both Gene and Franny look at the clock. See, in setting the scene earlier, this narrator forgot to mention there was a clock. Sorry about that, it won't happen again. Because, now I've mentioned the clock. Or will it always happen again, every time you read the story? Or did it never happen, because it's memory has been penned in this very spot? Anyways, I digress. The frivolity of musing about time in writing is not lost on a narrator who never existed in the real existence sense of the word, but always exists in these words on paper sense of the idea.
Ahem. Again, sorry for the digression.
Right, back at it. Gene and Franny are staring at an analog clock on the wall. The small hand points at 11:59. The long hand, the minute hand, though how can a long hand be minute?(pronounced my-newt in the second go-round there.) The long hand is ticking towards that same position.
It points at 11:35.
"Oh Franny? Could you get me some water?" Gene casually asks. Franny doesn't let his instigatory nature get to her. "Of course I can." she replies with a smile. A savvy narrator would point out that though she said she could, she meant it only as a physical capability. She in fact stayed rooted in her chair. I do hope I remember to point that detail out.
It points at 11:41.
"Gene, dear, will you literally take your feet off the coffee table?" Francesca asks.
"Of course I ca..." Gene realized too late that she thought ahead. His only option was to comply. "I will." he said, and pulled his feet off the table. But then, a smirk crept into his mind. He looked back and forth. His legs, seemingly with a mind of their own, which just so happened to be aligned with his mind, flew back up onto the table.
"Took them off the coffee table honey." Gene said. Nearly snickering himself to death.
It points at 11:44.
But he really, nearly snickered himself to death. His laugh and mischievous nature paired up and something in his throat just got caught. It threw him into a coughing and rolling fit. He was unable to snap out of it. He kept lolling, squirming, and gasping, as if to say, "Please, come help, I'm dying here."
It points at 11:59
"Genie, quit the theatrics it's ti..." Franny said. Gene always acted hurt and offended when she called him by that feminine name, but secretly, he always sort of liked it. Maybe one day he'd try calling her Frank. I don't know, I'm not omniscient. I just call it like I see it okay? Pointing out what's there to point out.
It points at midnight.
Suddenly, all their effort, all their distraction, all their everything quieted down and focused on the writing device in front of them. Their attention wholly consumed by the task at hand. Gene placed his pen on page 1 out of 70 in a college ruled notebook. Francesca's digits hovered over the QWERTY format keyboard.
Gene scratched his head with his pen.
Franny hit backspace 13 times.
Gene snuck a look at Francesca's chair. His look encompassed Franny too, if we're being thorough in our descriptions.
Franny looked pointedly at the ground. Her hands gripped the edges of her laptop.
Gene started to lean forward.
*Whizz* Franny's laptop flew from her hands across the room into the space which Gene's head, moments ago, had been happily occupying.
"Yeesh!" he screamed. As he rolled to the left, fell onto the floor and his his head on the coffee table.
"Good writing session" he said cradling his head.
"Better than ever!" Francesca agreed.
It pointed at 12:32.
Gene is lackadaisically sitting, arguably laying, on the couch one leg propped perpendicularly upon the other. Forming an equilateral triangle where he can balance his notebook.
Francesca, or Franny, though she hates to be called Franny, sits very poised. The chair she's in seems to beckon her. It calls out, "I'm so squishy. And comfy. Lean back, rest your weary soul." Yet there she sits, ram-rod straight.
Both Gene and Franny look at the clock. See, in setting the scene earlier, this narrator forgot to mention there was a clock. Sorry about that, it won't happen again. Because, now I've mentioned the clock. Or will it always happen again, every time you read the story? Or did it never happen, because it's memory has been penned in this very spot? Anyways, I digress. The frivolity of musing about time in writing is not lost on a narrator who never existed in the real existence sense of the word, but always exists in these words on paper sense of the idea.
Ahem. Again, sorry for the digression.
Right, back at it. Gene and Franny are staring at an analog clock on the wall. The small hand points at 11:59. The long hand, the minute hand, though how can a long hand be minute?(pronounced my-newt in the second go-round there.) The long hand is ticking towards that same position.
It points at 11:35.
"Oh Franny? Could you get me some water?" Gene casually asks. Franny doesn't let his instigatory nature get to her. "Of course I can." she replies with a smile. A savvy narrator would point out that though she said she could, she meant it only as a physical capability. She in fact stayed rooted in her chair. I do hope I remember to point that detail out.
It points at 11:41.
"Gene, dear, will you literally take your feet off the coffee table?" Francesca asks.
"Of course I ca..." Gene realized too late that she thought ahead. His only option was to comply. "I will." he said, and pulled his feet off the table. But then, a smirk crept into his mind. He looked back and forth. His legs, seemingly with a mind of their own, which just so happened to be aligned with his mind, flew back up onto the table.
"Took them off the coffee table honey." Gene said. Nearly snickering himself to death.
It points at 11:44.
But he really, nearly snickered himself to death. His laugh and mischievous nature paired up and something in his throat just got caught. It threw him into a coughing and rolling fit. He was unable to snap out of it. He kept lolling, squirming, and gasping, as if to say, "Please, come help, I'm dying here."
It points at 11:59
"Genie, quit the theatrics it's ti..." Franny said. Gene always acted hurt and offended when she called him by that feminine name, but secretly, he always sort of liked it. Maybe one day he'd try calling her Frank. I don't know, I'm not omniscient. I just call it like I see it okay? Pointing out what's there to point out.
It points at midnight.
Suddenly, all their effort, all their distraction, all their everything quieted down and focused on the writing device in front of them. Their attention wholly consumed by the task at hand. Gene placed his pen on page 1 out of 70 in a college ruled notebook. Francesca's digits hovered over the QWERTY format keyboard.
Gene scratched his head with his pen.
Franny hit backspace 13 times.
Gene snuck a look at Francesca's chair. His look encompassed Franny too, if we're being thorough in our descriptions.
Franny looked pointedly at the ground. Her hands gripped the edges of her laptop.
Gene started to lean forward.
*Whizz* Franny's laptop flew from her hands across the room into the space which Gene's head, moments ago, had been happily occupying.
"Yeesh!" he screamed. As he rolled to the left, fell onto the floor and his his head on the coffee table.
"Good writing session" he said cradling his head.
"Better than ever!" Francesca agreed.
It pointed at 12:32.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Janitorial Work
Where there was usually $100 for cleaning, hours, and supplies, today Jimminy found $12,000. It wasn't a completely uncommon occurrence, but he wished it was. He sighed and dropped the mop back in its bucket. The dirty water sloshed up over the edge back onto the floor. It was a marked improvement on the situation.
He used the mop as a steering and or pushing device for the bucket.
"Goddamn it" he cursed as the mop bucket, fell over sideways and gushed grimy water back onto Jimminy's work boots. You wouldn't think someone his size could look so dainty as he tiptoed over the mucky water towards the bathroom.
There were three urinals. The ones that sink all the way down onto the ground. Clearly designed by someone who felt men were peeing on the floor too little. The urinal cakes were a little over used, but somehow he doubted that was the reason for his tip. His bonus.
To the right of the urinal was a handicapped stall. Not that it could fit a person with crutches, or a wheel chair, but the stall itself had been in a serious accident. The door had to be held closed by hand the entire time someone was using it. Or they had to fix their face with the meanest look they could muster. One that implied pushing into this stall at this time, while not the gravest of errors, would be regrettable indeed..
The stall next to it wasn't so blessed with gifts, such as a door, or an actual toilet. There was a hole in the ground and exposed piping. It wasn't a great place, or a subtle place, or even an acceptable, "Oh no what on earth have I done, I should get out of here quick" backup place to hide a dead body, but apparently that didn't stop someone from trying.
It was this scene that Jimminy walked in on. Two bullets in the wall, with blood splattered around them, and then a racing stripe of blood painted from a spot two feet from the wall, to where the body was dragged and rolled into the center stall.
There was also blood on the sink faucet, which someone had struck repeatedly. But no blood clogged the drain. These motion sensor contraptions did everything in their power to turn on only when someone had left the bathroom, having given up in frustration.
Jimminy, with large blue rubber gloves, began to tidy up the situation. Removing bloodstains from the wall, the floor, and anywhere else they managed to get.
Into a large black trash bag, bits and pieces of clothing, bullets, or flesh were tossed. When the bag was full it was tied up and put in a pile to be removed later.
The tricky part wasn't cleaning up the body, or the gore. The tricky part was walking out of a bathroom with a lumpy odoriferous trash bag, but Jimminy, ever clever, always had an answer ready, that would amuse, horrify, and deflect any would be inquirer.
"Shit happens" he would grimly state, shake his head, and sadly saunter off towards the dumpster around back.
He used the mop as a steering and or pushing device for the bucket.
"Goddamn it" he cursed as the mop bucket, fell over sideways and gushed grimy water back onto Jimminy's work boots. You wouldn't think someone his size could look so dainty as he tiptoed over the mucky water towards the bathroom.
There were three urinals. The ones that sink all the way down onto the ground. Clearly designed by someone who felt men were peeing on the floor too little. The urinal cakes were a little over used, but somehow he doubted that was the reason for his tip. His bonus.
To the right of the urinal was a handicapped stall. Not that it could fit a person with crutches, or a wheel chair, but the stall itself had been in a serious accident. The door had to be held closed by hand the entire time someone was using it. Or they had to fix their face with the meanest look they could muster. One that implied pushing into this stall at this time, while not the gravest of errors, would be regrettable indeed..
The stall next to it wasn't so blessed with gifts, such as a door, or an actual toilet. There was a hole in the ground and exposed piping. It wasn't a great place, or a subtle place, or even an acceptable, "Oh no what on earth have I done, I should get out of here quick" backup place to hide a dead body, but apparently that didn't stop someone from trying.
It was this scene that Jimminy walked in on. Two bullets in the wall, with blood splattered around them, and then a racing stripe of blood painted from a spot two feet from the wall, to where the body was dragged and rolled into the center stall.
There was also blood on the sink faucet, which someone had struck repeatedly. But no blood clogged the drain. These motion sensor contraptions did everything in their power to turn on only when someone had left the bathroom, having given up in frustration.
Jimminy, with large blue rubber gloves, began to tidy up the situation. Removing bloodstains from the wall, the floor, and anywhere else they managed to get.
Into a large black trash bag, bits and pieces of clothing, bullets, or flesh were tossed. When the bag was full it was tied up and put in a pile to be removed later.
The tricky part wasn't cleaning up the body, or the gore. The tricky part was walking out of a bathroom with a lumpy odoriferous trash bag, but Jimminy, ever clever, always had an answer ready, that would amuse, horrify, and deflect any would be inquirer.
"Shit happens" he would grimly state, shake his head, and sadly saunter off towards the dumpster around back.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
A Paragraph
If there was a plan, if there was a reason for this happening, it must be because someone somewhere out there, really and deeply hated Gunther. Because, today when Gunther woke up, the only clean socks he had were: a neon green toe job, and one dark purple ankle sock. And that was what he had to use for underwear.
...
Nope, this post is really a paragraph. Plus a two sentence description.
...
Nope, this post is really a paragraph. Plus a two sentence description.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Shapely
"But I know someone who might." She took another drag on her cigarette. "She'll be round here at 10:30 if'n you wanna wait." With that she flicked her cigarette across the alley, it made a small *plink* noise, its fire replaced with a soggy, short lived, steam. She disappeared into the kitchen this alley was attached to.
Jackson looked around for a place to sit. There was an empty milk crate giving an abandoned look to an otherwise frequented location.
At some point he found himself sipping a beer. He didn't remember where it came from, but that didn't bother him much. Time ticked by. Funny he thought, how if time was slow it was a tick, if it was fast it was a fly, but a tick could happen in a jiff. He really hoped something happened soon. There was only so much staring at walls and thinking he could take, and he had long since passed that point. He passed that point about an hour earlier after making up elaborate stories about why there was a small syringe spray painted on the wall in front of him. He imagined it was to signify this cozy alcove is where the cure to the zombie apocalypse would be invented. He kept looking around. Time continued, in its own time, to pass.
"You the girl?" a gruff voice closer than expected blurted out.
Jackson's bleary eyes bounded open. When did he nod off? Was he wearing a dress again? Why did this always happen to him? He looked down. Jeans and a t-shirt. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Not a dress. Okay. Did he need a haircut? Why did someone want to know if he was the girl? He looked up at the voice.
"Is this a... proposition then?" Jackson asked. The voice, surrounded by an oily beard, did not laugh. Did not respond. "Because. I'm not like 'a night girl'. Or anything."
A few other voices came out of the darkness.
"That's the girl alright. It's 10:30 isn't it?"
"10:28."
"Same thing. You're too anal."
"When has the girl ever admitted it? She's always a flake."
"She looks different."
"I'm not. I'm not a girl?" Jackson stated?
"Just give it to her then."
"We've got two more drops tonight."
"Who planned this?"
"You did."
"So don't you think I know we have two more drops tonight?"
"Well, then what are we waiting for."
"Alright girl. We're gunna remember you this time though. The sound of a thumb wheel scratching across a small piece of flint. Again. Again.
"Ahhhhh!" Jackson screamed in pain. "What the ...!? Is that any way to treat a lady?" he wasn't sure what sort of people would ask about a girl, then burn her on the palm, especially when she obviously, obviously right?, obviously wasn't really a girl, but he was very confident it was not the sort of people he wanted to associate with.
Before he could stop cradling his open palm and looking like a wounded animal, which he did really very well, something slipped into his pocket and then it was quiet.
"Yeah, well I'm leaving too." Jackson said to the darkness. "Fry cook tells me to wait in the cold, so I could get burned and bored. See if I put up with it." He stormed off until the corner of the alley way. Then he very cautiously peered around the corner into the street. When he was sure the coast was clear he resumed storming down the street, towards his home.
Minutes later a brunette haired girl walked into the alley. Heels clicking and seeming out of place. She pulled out a phone from her bra, displeased that even at this forward thinking time black dresses were made without pockets, holding the small dark screen in her hand she pressed the little button on top.
10:30pm glowed too brightly in the dark night. It wasn't like them to be late. She wondered if she heard voices off in the distance? No one approached. Without the delivery she wasn't going to make it very far.
She began to vomit and shake. Her hair shrunk to about shoulder length into her head. What was once a fitted black dress that accentuated curves became like an oversized hoody, obscuring the smaller frame and the different skin color that had taken hold. Now a black haired girl crossed her arms and hugged herself, stepped out of shoes that no longer fit, and walked into the restaurant kitchen as it was closing.
Jackson looked around for a place to sit. There was an empty milk crate giving an abandoned look to an otherwise frequented location.
At some point he found himself sipping a beer. He didn't remember where it came from, but that didn't bother him much. Time ticked by. Funny he thought, how if time was slow it was a tick, if it was fast it was a fly, but a tick could happen in a jiff. He really hoped something happened soon. There was only so much staring at walls and thinking he could take, and he had long since passed that point. He passed that point about an hour earlier after making up elaborate stories about why there was a small syringe spray painted on the wall in front of him. He imagined it was to signify this cozy alcove is where the cure to the zombie apocalypse would be invented. He kept looking around. Time continued, in its own time, to pass.
"You the girl?" a gruff voice closer than expected blurted out.
Jackson's bleary eyes bounded open. When did he nod off? Was he wearing a dress again? Why did this always happen to him? He looked down. Jeans and a t-shirt. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Not a dress. Okay. Did he need a haircut? Why did someone want to know if he was the girl? He looked up at the voice.
"Is this a... proposition then?" Jackson asked. The voice, surrounded by an oily beard, did not laugh. Did not respond. "Because. I'm not like 'a night girl'. Or anything."
A few other voices came out of the darkness.
"That's the girl alright. It's 10:30 isn't it?"
"10:28."
"Same thing. You're too anal."
"When has the girl ever admitted it? She's always a flake."
"She looks different."
"I'm not. I'm not a girl?" Jackson stated?
"Just give it to her then."
"We've got two more drops tonight."
"Who planned this?"
"You did."
"So don't you think I know we have two more drops tonight?"
"Well, then what are we waiting for."
"Alright girl. We're gunna remember you this time though. The sound of a thumb wheel scratching across a small piece of flint. Again. Again.
"Ahhhhh!" Jackson screamed in pain. "What the ...!? Is that any way to treat a lady?" he wasn't sure what sort of people would ask about a girl, then burn her on the palm, especially when she obviously, obviously right?, obviously wasn't really a girl, but he was very confident it was not the sort of people he wanted to associate with.
Before he could stop cradling his open palm and looking like a wounded animal, which he did really very well, something slipped into his pocket and then it was quiet.
"Yeah, well I'm leaving too." Jackson said to the darkness. "Fry cook tells me to wait in the cold, so I could get burned and bored. See if I put up with it." He stormed off until the corner of the alley way. Then he very cautiously peered around the corner into the street. When he was sure the coast was clear he resumed storming down the street, towards his home.
Minutes later a brunette haired girl walked into the alley. Heels clicking and seeming out of place. She pulled out a phone from her bra, displeased that even at this forward thinking time black dresses were made without pockets, holding the small dark screen in her hand she pressed the little button on top.
10:30pm glowed too brightly in the dark night. It wasn't like them to be late. She wondered if she heard voices off in the distance? No one approached. Without the delivery she wasn't going to make it very far.
She began to vomit and shake. Her hair shrunk to about shoulder length into her head. What was once a fitted black dress that accentuated curves became like an oversized hoody, obscuring the smaller frame and the different skin color that had taken hold. Now a black haired girl crossed her arms and hugged herself, stepped out of shoes that no longer fit, and walked into the restaurant kitchen as it was closing.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Ew-motions
For the third time he reached over to touch her shoulder. His other two attempts were great failures, but he was determined. Just then, she turned towards him a little bit. She began to say, "Steven, I really li..." But at that point it was too late for Steven to alter his approach, he had committed to the action. He ended up sort of open handed poking the top of her boob.
Immediately she jerked back. Tilted her head to the left about 30 degrees, and arched her left eyebrow.
"Hey. Uh." Steven says. "I uh like your sweater..." It wasn't like everything he did was fraught with awkwardness, but it was definitely embroidered with it.
"Yeah, it's nice." Sandra looked down, rolling her fists into her sweater and began to pull it in the opposite direction of Steven. She was focusing on the small holes that appear when she stretched the wool of her sweater. She wondered what caused the small strands to mutiny from the main body of the sweater, and go off in their own direction. Surely they all started with the same mission? But at this point they had all forgotten their original lofty dreams of being together and providing warmth. Now they were old bickering couples scratching and and fighting, hiding small poking thorns never to be found, always to be felt.
"Hey don't pull your sweater like that." Steven said. Hoping some god would grant him more panache than he ever had, went in to attempt a move way outside of his ability. He grabbed her hand through her sweater, looked her right in the eyes and said, "I love you."
Except. He didn't exactly look her in the eyes. Like. If she hadn't turned her head away just then, by some complete coincidence, he would have seen her eyes. But her ear was still lovely and it didn't detract at all from his feelings, or the sentiment. And he said, "I love you."
Or well, he would have said I love you. If his throat didn't swell up and he didn't cough a little. In his mind all that was playing were the words, "I love you."
So what, "I *ahe* loke your sweater.." is what came out. He still held her hand while he said it, and surely she understood his feelings, they were clear, no matter what he actually said. Body language accounts for 86% of non-verbal communication after all.
Well. If he was being entirely honest with his assessment of the situation, he didn't grab her hands, he grabbed her crotch.
"Wow, first and second base. If you like my sweater so much you can take it." Except, Sandra realized the image she must have created for Steven seconds too late. She jumped up out of the chair and tripped over herself heading towards the door. Looking back, she saw the confused look on Steven's face. Though she felt bad, she couldn't say as much. "Am I a fucking awkward magnet?" she grumbled as she left.
Looking at the ground towards the door Steven asked, "Do you want to go home?" The floor, not realizing it wasn't at home fell into deep duress. His question received no response.
Though, as Sandra was walking out the door Steven found his grace. In one swift motion he stood up from his seat, slid his black leather jacket on and cooly strutted towards the door. He glanced back over his shoulder with a look that would have melted the strongest willed of hearts. The blend of a certain contentedness, or understanding that not all awkwardness can be forgiven, human as it is, and a new found knowledge that he'd never get to love the girl he loved the way he dreamed balanced together and for just a moment, he seemed entirely lovely.
Immediately she jerked back. Tilted her head to the left about 30 degrees, and arched her left eyebrow.
"Hey. Uh." Steven says. "I uh like your sweater..." It wasn't like everything he did was fraught with awkwardness, but it was definitely embroidered with it.
"Yeah, it's nice." Sandra looked down, rolling her fists into her sweater and began to pull it in the opposite direction of Steven. She was focusing on the small holes that appear when she stretched the wool of her sweater. She wondered what caused the small strands to mutiny from the main body of the sweater, and go off in their own direction. Surely they all started with the same mission? But at this point they had all forgotten their original lofty dreams of being together and providing warmth. Now they were old bickering couples scratching and and fighting, hiding small poking thorns never to be found, always to be felt.
"Hey don't pull your sweater like that." Steven said. Hoping some god would grant him more panache than he ever had, went in to attempt a move way outside of his ability. He grabbed her hand through her sweater, looked her right in the eyes and said, "I love you."
Except. He didn't exactly look her in the eyes. Like. If she hadn't turned her head away just then, by some complete coincidence, he would have seen her eyes. But her ear was still lovely and it didn't detract at all from his feelings, or the sentiment. And he said, "I love you."
Or well, he would have said I love you. If his throat didn't swell up and he didn't cough a little. In his mind all that was playing were the words, "I love you."
So what, "I *ahe* loke your sweater.." is what came out. He still held her hand while he said it, and surely she understood his feelings, they were clear, no matter what he actually said. Body language accounts for 86% of non-verbal communication after all.
Well. If he was being entirely honest with his assessment of the situation, he didn't grab her hands, he grabbed her crotch.
"Wow, first and second base. If you like my sweater so much you can take it." Except, Sandra realized the image she must have created for Steven seconds too late. She jumped up out of the chair and tripped over herself heading towards the door. Looking back, she saw the confused look on Steven's face. Though she felt bad, she couldn't say as much. "Am I a fucking awkward magnet?" she grumbled as she left.
Looking at the ground towards the door Steven asked, "Do you want to go home?" The floor, not realizing it wasn't at home fell into deep duress. His question received no response.
Though, as Sandra was walking out the door Steven found his grace. In one swift motion he stood up from his seat, slid his black leather jacket on and cooly strutted towards the door. He glanced back over his shoulder with a look that would have melted the strongest willed of hearts. The blend of a certain contentedness, or understanding that not all awkwardness can be forgiven, human as it is, and a new found knowledge that he'd never get to love the girl he loved the way he dreamed balanced together and for just a moment, he seemed entirely lovely.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Genie
"Don't give a f... care. I don't care if you think it's not worth it. Those are my rates." Peter hung up the phone. Well, neither "hung" nor "up" really accurately describes the action he took slamming the phone down repeatedly after the conclusion of the conversation. Though, the idea that the phone call in question had ended was, at least, the right one. Some people just didn't understand how Peter could charge so much to do his job, but those people, Peter consoled himself, also didn't know what it was like to see their dreams come true. To see what just a little bit of dedication and skill over a period of time could accomplish.
Peter stood up, grabbed his coat and walked out of his inner office into the outer office.
"You've got to dredge through a piano lesson in an hour at the conservatory downtown." his secretary Bill Melange told him.
"You uh. Look good today Bill." Peter nodded and continued towards the door.
"Do you really think that, or is that for Jeremiah? I told him he should seek counseling, I really think that's the sort of thing people should do for themse..."
"And then where would we be Bill? Remember, this is a business and we provide a useful service." Peter continued out of the office and headed to the bus stop.
On the bus ride to the piano lesson Peter was scribbling nearly unintelligibly in a composition notebook. Just about his life, day-to-day, and a sort of stream of consciousness.
this morning i woke up and then had a really great latte. It was a hazlenut latte and I ground the beans myself. Then I steamed the milk, hearing that deep gutteral roar of the white liquid bubbling up. The roar that means this is *just* the right temperature, and it's not scalding. Perfect. The shot of espresso began to pour, and I just sort of watched it, slid it into a coffee cup, and before bitterness could overtake it added the creamy milk, first liquid, then foam rushing out of one container, saving the espresso from a certain lonelyness and desolation it would have faced without the milk added to it. I then sipped tentatively. It was really incredibly hot. I burned my tongue on the tip, but there was still a fine nutty scent wafting up, and collecting in my senses. A burnt caramel hazelnut taste lingered on my tongue for the rest of the morning...
Peter pulled out his phone. Dialed another of his clients, "Hi Susan? I wanted to let you know I got in about forty five minutes of writing just now, and I did thirty minutes this morning. That brings your weekly bill to $731.25. Bill will fax you over a copy."
It took a moment for Susan's mind to differentiate the various verbs and nouns of Peter's last sentence. For a moment she was about to ask why Fax shouldn't just bill her over a copy.
"You know, I just had the funniest thought." Susan said. "When I was younger, I was always having those funny thoughts. Words jumble and bounce around in my head. My teachers always said I'd be a great author. Anyways, how'd today go? Do you think?" Excitement creeping into her voice. As she was talking Peter heard what sounded like Law and Order playing in the background abruptly muted. Sensing she was still a little distracted it must still be playing in the background.
"It was really an inspiring session this morning. I'm convinced people are going to start seeing my writing in a new light. If I keep up with this dedication and my blog gets a little more circulation, it, it could be big." Peter said.
After a little too long of a pause Susan responded, "Oh that's good to hear. After all my time at the office, I just want to relax, you know? But I do so love writing. Ah, it's so good to hear that it's going well. I mean my dream, it's finally coming true!" Susan sighed in relief and excitement.
"I think by the end of this month I'll have something to show an agent, and I'll keep you posted. Oh and Susan? Next month I'm going to start charging another $5 an hour for positive thinking, is that something you still want?"
"Uhm. Well, Yes, I think it is. Um. Yeah, no I really want to feel good about this project, so that's fine. Talk to you soon." Susan said.
Peter clicked off. He stepped off the bus and began to whistle a little diddy he wrote earlier in the week. Nothing spectacular, but he wrote the song himself. He was set to perform it at an open mic this Thursday. Anyone who showed up to the Splendid Cafe could get five minutes, and that was more than enough for a budding performer.
Still having a little time before his piano lesson, he stopped into a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. "I'll have a giant cafe mocha please." he ordered. "Actually, that's too much caffeine, it'll excite me. Can I have a Black Oil Stout instead?"
"Will that be all?" Missy the barista asked. "We both know you hate stouts though."
"That will be all, thanks Missy. You know work. It's just, I did always want to learn to play the piano. I've got to remember -- I only want the end result: playing Beethoven's Fifth by Christmas to impress my family."
"Well, that sounds like a tight timeline, do you have any experience?" Missy wondered as she popped off the bottle cap, and with a pint glass flat on the bar began to pour the beer. "Dammit there's always too much head. Sorry, I really ought to learn to how to pour better."
"That's a standard package, $20 flat. Want me to find out?" Peter asked as he paid for the beer and began to drink. His mood began to match the color of the liquid he poured into his mouth.
"Oh, no thanks. I bought a book, oh let me sho..." Missy said. The phone at the bar started ringing and she answered, called away by duty.
Peter arrived at the piano lesson already annoyed at his state, and thankfully, it wasn't going to get any better.
Peter stood up, grabbed his coat and walked out of his inner office into the outer office.
"You've got to dredge through a piano lesson in an hour at the conservatory downtown." his secretary Bill Melange told him.
"You uh. Look good today Bill." Peter nodded and continued towards the door.
"Do you really think that, or is that for Jeremiah? I told him he should seek counseling, I really think that's the sort of thing people should do for themse..."
"And then where would we be Bill? Remember, this is a business and we provide a useful service." Peter continued out of the office and headed to the bus stop.
On the bus ride to the piano lesson Peter was scribbling nearly unintelligibly in a composition notebook. Just about his life, day-to-day, and a sort of stream of consciousness.
this morning i woke up and then had a really great latte. It was a hazlenut latte and I ground the beans myself. Then I steamed the milk, hearing that deep gutteral roar of the white liquid bubbling up. The roar that means this is *just* the right temperature, and it's not scalding. Perfect. The shot of espresso began to pour, and I just sort of watched it, slid it into a coffee cup, and before bitterness could overtake it added the creamy milk, first liquid, then foam rushing out of one container, saving the espresso from a certain lonelyness and desolation it would have faced without the milk added to it. I then sipped tentatively. It was really incredibly hot. I burned my tongue on the tip, but there was still a fine nutty scent wafting up, and collecting in my senses. A burnt caramel hazelnut taste lingered on my tongue for the rest of the morning...
Peter pulled out his phone. Dialed another of his clients, "Hi Susan? I wanted to let you know I got in about forty five minutes of writing just now, and I did thirty minutes this morning. That brings your weekly bill to $731.25. Bill will fax you over a copy."
It took a moment for Susan's mind to differentiate the various verbs and nouns of Peter's last sentence. For a moment she was about to ask why Fax shouldn't just bill her over a copy.
"You know, I just had the funniest thought." Susan said. "When I was younger, I was always having those funny thoughts. Words jumble and bounce around in my head. My teachers always said I'd be a great author. Anyways, how'd today go? Do you think?" Excitement creeping into her voice. As she was talking Peter heard what sounded like Law and Order playing in the background abruptly muted. Sensing she was still a little distracted it must still be playing in the background.
"It was really an inspiring session this morning. I'm convinced people are going to start seeing my writing in a new light. If I keep up with this dedication and my blog gets a little more circulation, it, it could be big." Peter said.
After a little too long of a pause Susan responded, "Oh that's good to hear. After all my time at the office, I just want to relax, you know? But I do so love writing. Ah, it's so good to hear that it's going well. I mean my dream, it's finally coming true!" Susan sighed in relief and excitement.
"I think by the end of this month I'll have something to show an agent, and I'll keep you posted. Oh and Susan? Next month I'm going to start charging another $5 an hour for positive thinking, is that something you still want?"
"Uhm. Well, Yes, I think it is. Um. Yeah, no I really want to feel good about this project, so that's fine. Talk to you soon." Susan said.
Peter clicked off. He stepped off the bus and began to whistle a little diddy he wrote earlier in the week. Nothing spectacular, but he wrote the song himself. He was set to perform it at an open mic this Thursday. Anyone who showed up to the Splendid Cafe could get five minutes, and that was more than enough for a budding performer.
Still having a little time before his piano lesson, he stopped into a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. "I'll have a giant cafe mocha please." he ordered. "Actually, that's too much caffeine, it'll excite me. Can I have a Black Oil Stout instead?"
"Will that be all?" Missy the barista asked. "We both know you hate stouts though."
"That will be all, thanks Missy. You know work. It's just, I did always want to learn to play the piano. I've got to remember -- I only want the end result: playing Beethoven's Fifth by Christmas to impress my family."
"Well, that sounds like a tight timeline, do you have any experience?" Missy wondered as she popped off the bottle cap, and with a pint glass flat on the bar began to pour the beer. "Dammit there's always too much head. Sorry, I really ought to learn to how to pour better."
"That's a standard package, $20 flat. Want me to find out?" Peter asked as he paid for the beer and began to drink. His mood began to match the color of the liquid he poured into his mouth.
"Oh, no thanks. I bought a book, oh let me sho..." Missy said. The phone at the bar started ringing and she answered, called away by duty.
Peter arrived at the piano lesson already annoyed at his state, and thankfully, it wasn't going to get any better.
Friday, January 17, 2014
My Apartment
So you've still got your mission, right? My mission, well did you know Mickey Mouse tried to commit suicide? Multiple times? First he tried a shotgun, then jumping off a bridge, filling his bedroom with gas, throwing an anvil tied to his foot into a river, and finally he tried to hang himself from a tree. Even Mickey Mouse at one point didn't want to -- couldn't go on.
After the bar, the next place I found myself was my own apartment.
Here's a common scene:
One of us is home in our average sized two bedroom apartment, another walks in through the doorway. If the one of us who was home is feeling particularly cruel, we may ask, "How was your day?" As if we couldn't tell. We feign stupidity and lack of observance. Perhaps, it is felt, their only utterance was an "Ugh" of contentedness. Their bedroom door was slammed simply out of excess exuberance.
See, we are all employed at not-our-dream-jobs, and a have sneaking suspicion that life is often full of working that 9-5 grind without quite enough coffee to get us through. This fills us with a righteous and deep unhappiness. The only way to really express our feelings is to dirty some dishes and leave them on the counter. We'd do the dishes, but we can't quite divine why the sink doesn't drain, so much as act like a derelict pool for rubber duckies who couldn't afford the bathroom real estate costs.
"You really can't put anything down the garbage disposal. If it gets clogged you'll have to pay for it." our landlord told us when we moved in. To be fair, we had completely forgotten, since we moved in something like two and a half hours earlier.
Enter the repairman. A deep sigh escapes his chest. "What did you guys put down the sink?" Down the sink? We're not sure. Do we even have a sink? Oh, that contraption that stores all our vegetable husks and potato skins that we like too much to throw away? "Nothing that we know of." At this point the repairman fixes us with a look that implies he's astounded with how much stupidity we've been gifted. Surely our creator saved some for the rest of the population?
"Huh." is what he says. We all know what he's just found down there. He asks, "Which one of you put the frilly pink underwear down here?" But we don't break that easily. "Underwear?" The phrase wafts into our mind's eye. We try to place it. Both of us shrug. "Should you not put panties down the garbage disposal?" we wonder. The repairman, miraculously, doesn't brain either of us with a pipe full of frilly gunk and pink fibrous mush.
Since clearly we aren't going to, the repairman affects the stance of the bigger man. "Don't worry, this happens all the time." As he leaves our apartment we think it's an odd thing that in performance of a job he may not love, where he has to deal with stupid tenants who can't seem to follow simple instructions, he still does it with such good nature. We wonder if we can't aspire to be a little more like him. A little more content with our situation.
Our third roommate walks in the door. "It's your turn to do the dishes." He must be pleased at the news. He could have thrown his groceries much more accurately at our heads, on the way by to slamming the door to his room.
"Did you have a good day?"
After the bar, the next place I found myself was my own apartment.
Here's a common scene:
One of us is home in our average sized two bedroom apartment, another walks in through the doorway. If the one of us who was home is feeling particularly cruel, we may ask, "How was your day?" As if we couldn't tell. We feign stupidity and lack of observance. Perhaps, it is felt, their only utterance was an "Ugh" of contentedness. Their bedroom door was slammed simply out of excess exuberance.
See, we are all employed at not-our-dream-jobs, and a have sneaking suspicion that life is often full of working that 9-5 grind without quite enough coffee to get us through. This fills us with a righteous and deep unhappiness. The only way to really express our feelings is to dirty some dishes and leave them on the counter. We'd do the dishes, but we can't quite divine why the sink doesn't drain, so much as act like a derelict pool for rubber duckies who couldn't afford the bathroom real estate costs.
"You really can't put anything down the garbage disposal. If it gets clogged you'll have to pay for it." our landlord told us when we moved in. To be fair, we had completely forgotten, since we moved in something like two and a half hours earlier.
Enter the repairman. A deep sigh escapes his chest. "What did you guys put down the sink?" Down the sink? We're not sure. Do we even have a sink? Oh, that contraption that stores all our vegetable husks and potato skins that we like too much to throw away? "Nothing that we know of." At this point the repairman fixes us with a look that implies he's astounded with how much stupidity we've been gifted. Surely our creator saved some for the rest of the population?
"Huh." is what he says. We all know what he's just found down there. He asks, "Which one of you put the frilly pink underwear down here?" But we don't break that easily. "Underwear?" The phrase wafts into our mind's eye. We try to place it. Both of us shrug. "Should you not put panties down the garbage disposal?" we wonder. The repairman, miraculously, doesn't brain either of us with a pipe full of frilly gunk and pink fibrous mush.
Since clearly we aren't going to, the repairman affects the stance of the bigger man. "Don't worry, this happens all the time." As he leaves our apartment we think it's an odd thing that in performance of a job he may not love, where he has to deal with stupid tenants who can't seem to follow simple instructions, he still does it with such good nature. We wonder if we can't aspire to be a little more like him. A little more content with our situation.
Our third roommate walks in the door. "It's your turn to do the dishes." He must be pleased at the news. He could have thrown his groceries much more accurately at our heads, on the way by to slamming the door to his room.
"Did you have a good day?"
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
My Mission in Life
At that point it was my mission in life, well what do you care what my mission is? Don't you have your own guiding light? Doesn't something big and grand get you out of bed every day. Something that you were born knowing you had to do? That you've always known you had to do? Well I'll tell you my mission. But later, I'm not ready quite yet.
I will tell you this: I was looking for something. Okay, so I wasn't really looking at first. At first, I was at a bar.
It was the then common style of bar. Full of pretty young people, who order elaborate sounding shots like, "Red Headed Buttery B-52 Gas Chamber Nipple Bombers". They'd tell the bartender exactly what was in it, and the order to layer in various alcohols and flourishing flavorants, which usually resulted in the bartender very confidently pouring 1.5 ounces of tequila into a shot glass, and sliding it across the bar. Sometimes the bartender would look, with furrowed brows, at a recipe book. One may notice an "aha" moment, followed by, with renewed vigor, the bartender filling a shot glass full of tequila and handing it over.
No one really minded. They didn't come to the bar to impress their friends with an impressively deep knowledge of obscure shots -- that was just a bonus. People came to the bar to drink. To enjoy some of the Bud Limelight, or the Pabst Blue Second Prize Ribbon life had bestowed upon them. While it wasn't exactly something to live for, it was apparently a popular alternative to dying. So that's where I started. In a room full of people who didn't want to die, but weren't necessarily above poisoning themselves.
A couple of hot-to-trot little 72 year olds were sitting by the bar. They'd scoff at anyone who tried to talk to them without buying them a drink. "As if" they'd say. They'd shake their head in such a way, that if they had any hair left, it would have flipped over their shoulder, magnificently indicating the end of your exchange. A group of frat boys in the back were yelling and screaming at the game on television. "No you imbecile! Knight to A-4." "Mate that check!"
The night was filled with giggling, yelling, punching, kissing, and fighting.
After a few hours, I drove home. Not like those irresponsible twits who "drive under the influence" or "drive while intoxicated" or "drive with a seat belt on". No sir, I knew I had too much to drink to maintain safety on the road, so I was riding shotgun -- with an incredibly wasted designated driver. My designated putter was too drunk to even get out of the trunk.
A cop pulled up and pulled us over. He gave us a ticket "that's the ticket" we thought.
Upon arriving home I unlocked the door, took off my shoes, put my keys on the hook, walked upstairs to my bedroom, got undressed, put on my pajamas and promptly fell asleep. I woke up the next afternoon to a very loud and confused Mexican family who live in the apartment below mine. None of us were quite sure why I was dressed like a Unicorn in their bathtub below a broken window with bloody feet. I had bloody feet, not the window.
That's how the first day of following my life's mission went.
I will tell you this: I was looking for something. Okay, so I wasn't really looking at first. At first, I was at a bar.
It was the then common style of bar. Full of pretty young people, who order elaborate sounding shots like, "Red Headed Buttery B-52 Gas Chamber Nipple Bombers". They'd tell the bartender exactly what was in it, and the order to layer in various alcohols and flourishing flavorants, which usually resulted in the bartender very confidently pouring 1.5 ounces of tequila into a shot glass, and sliding it across the bar. Sometimes the bartender would look, with furrowed brows, at a recipe book. One may notice an "aha" moment, followed by, with renewed vigor, the bartender filling a shot glass full of tequila and handing it over.
No one really minded. They didn't come to the bar to impress their friends with an impressively deep knowledge of obscure shots -- that was just a bonus. People came to the bar to drink. To enjoy some of the Bud Limelight, or the Pabst Blue Second Prize Ribbon life had bestowed upon them. While it wasn't exactly something to live for, it was apparently a popular alternative to dying. So that's where I started. In a room full of people who didn't want to die, but weren't necessarily above poisoning themselves.
A couple of hot-to-trot little 72 year olds were sitting by the bar. They'd scoff at anyone who tried to talk to them without buying them a drink. "As if" they'd say. They'd shake their head in such a way, that if they had any hair left, it would have flipped over their shoulder, magnificently indicating the end of your exchange. A group of frat boys in the back were yelling and screaming at the game on television. "No you imbecile! Knight to A-4." "Mate that check!"
The night was filled with giggling, yelling, punching, kissing, and fighting.
After a few hours, I drove home. Not like those irresponsible twits who "drive under the influence" or "drive while intoxicated" or "drive with a seat belt on". No sir, I knew I had too much to drink to maintain safety on the road, so I was riding shotgun -- with an incredibly wasted designated driver. My designated putter was too drunk to even get out of the trunk.
A cop pulled up and pulled us over. He gave us a ticket "that's the ticket" we thought.
Upon arriving home I unlocked the door, took off my shoes, put my keys on the hook, walked upstairs to my bedroom, got undressed, put on my pajamas and promptly fell asleep. I woke up the next afternoon to a very loud and confused Mexican family who live in the apartment below mine. None of us were quite sure why I was dressed like a Unicorn in their bathtub below a broken window with bloody feet. I had bloody feet, not the window.
That's how the first day of following my life's mission went.
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