"Yum!" I chirped as I drained the bottle of Drano. "Tastes like chicken...chicken that cleans a clogged toilet." Then I died all like 'bleh.'
The End.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Saturday, January 10, 2009
An Old Rant.
(I thought it time to pull this bad boy off the virtual shelf from '03 considering we're about to maybe move to the boonies...)
DO YOU KNOW HOW FRUSTRATING IT IS when you are sick, lying in bed with cramps and a headache that had to be caused by getting hit with a very large and heavy brick when you weren’t looking and someone offers to go to the store and get something for you? You feel like one of the few members living on a remote island and one man is making a journey to the mainland in his makeshift coconut shell boat that may or may not make it for supplies that your tribe desperately needs so you must tell him everything you personally have been um, desperately needing before he leaves and you will never get the chance ever EVER again (until tomorrow or Tuesday.)
So the guy heads out the door and you hear it click shut like the boom of thunder in your mind and you think you’ve told him every single even minutely essential thing possible that you could even maybe sort of possibly need but then it dawns on you like DOOM laughing and you remember one last actually important thing last minute like super absorbent Tampax that you might get low on even though you already have a box and a half sitting under the bathroom sink or a thing of Crangrape juice or something and so you run a mad dash like a banshee out of hell down a flight of stairs and through the entire house (which feels like traipsing leisurely through the state of Rhode Island because of the hurry you are in to catch him before he leaves) to the back door only to find them just getting in the car so you do everything you can to get his attention including jumping up and down like an angry Chihuahua in heat and screaming “HEY” at the top of your lungs like an American Idol reject while waiving your arms up and down so fast you are surprised you haven’t taken off like a damn dodo bird or Superman and just flown your sorry ass to the store but you keep trying, even throwing a trash can lid turned frisbee at the vehicle HARD, probably denting it, to NO AVAIL, the whole time NOT realizing you are in your UNDERWEAR because, well, you have been sick but the dude STILL doesn’t recognize your presence and so he goes to the store without the one thing you needed like ONE POSTAGE STAMP or a small bottle of bottled water because it really DOES taste better than the tap and as they round the corner away from your house they leave you standing on the porch stomping your feet like a five year old throwing a temper tantrum over Captain Crunch cereal while the neighbors look on in wonder and enjoyment, laughing, putrid VULTURES they ARE, eating popcorn and sitting their fat asses in lawn chairs so droopy in the middle from BUTT that you can’t believe they don’t just fall through to the pavement looking like a fat sloppy human turd being flushed down the toilet...
Anyway, so you quickly run your half dressed booty back inside and go back up the stairs to call the supermarket and some middle aged whiny CLOVEN OF HOOF guy with an anxiety complex on the other end of the line acts as if simply by the tone of your voice you’ve called in a bomb threat on the freakin’ GROCERY STORE, and you are completely INSANE and should be straight-jacketed that very instant but he says he’ll relay the message if he can find the guy which shouldn’t be hard unless he is BLIND since the OBVIOUSLY DEAF guy in question will be the only one coming into the store wearing flame patterned orange and black pajama pants in JULY and when the phone does finally ring you run to pick it up and your guy barely has time to wearily utter “hello” in a barely audible and frightened whisper because the phone jack is broken and the little cord that hooks to the wall has fallen out because you have a cheap piece of SH*T Wal-Mart five dollar NOT cordless phone upstairs because you decided to put the good expensive ($15) cordless HELPFUL phone downstairs which is stupid because you aren’t ever even down there for anything anyway except when Head Start daycare does a house visit and you have to sit and offer them tea somewhere...
So you just usually hang out upstairs which is what caused this problem in the first place and so you hang up on him accidentally because FATE that stupid HO find this all VERY amusing and by the time your guy does call back, you pick up the phone and have to hold it speshul so all the pieces don’t fall out of the bottom, so you are standing in this awkward position looking quite SPESHUL yourself and you are so farking frustrated that you don’t even say hello when you pick up the extension but instead you just let out a demonic Satan possessed shriek of DEATH into the phone so ear-splitting that you might as well buy the guy a hearing aid now to avoid the messy civil suit he will no doubt be bringing against you in the near future when he realizes that just because you couldn’t LIVE WITHOUT some Dannon FRUIT ON THE F-CKING BOTTOM STRAWBERRY BANANA YOGURT you are now having a full scale “adjective for being cheese-grated over a cactus naked” mental breakdown on the other end of the line causing him to lose 90% of his hearing ability for the rest of his life which wouldn’t have been very long had he been there with you at that exact moment anyway.
Don’t you just hate it when that happens??
Yeah. I thought so.
DO YOU KNOW HOW FRUSTRATING IT IS when you are sick, lying in bed with cramps and a headache that had to be caused by getting hit with a very large and heavy brick when you weren’t looking and someone offers to go to the store and get something for you? You feel like one of the few members living on a remote island and one man is making a journey to the mainland in his makeshift coconut shell boat that may or may not make it for supplies that your tribe desperately needs so you must tell him everything you personally have been um, desperately needing before he leaves and you will never get the chance ever EVER again (until tomorrow or Tuesday.)
So the guy heads out the door and you hear it click shut like the boom of thunder in your mind and you think you’ve told him every single even minutely essential thing possible that you could even maybe sort of possibly need but then it dawns on you like DOOM laughing and you remember one last actually important thing last minute like super absorbent Tampax that you might get low on even though you already have a box and a half sitting under the bathroom sink or a thing of Crangrape juice or something and so you run a mad dash like a banshee out of hell down a flight of stairs and through the entire house (which feels like traipsing leisurely through the state of Rhode Island because of the hurry you are in to catch him before he leaves) to the back door only to find them just getting in the car so you do everything you can to get his attention including jumping up and down like an angry Chihuahua in heat and screaming “HEY” at the top of your lungs like an American Idol reject while waiving your arms up and down so fast you are surprised you haven’t taken off like a damn dodo bird or Superman and just flown your sorry ass to the store but you keep trying, even throwing a trash can lid turned frisbee at the vehicle HARD, probably denting it, to NO AVAIL, the whole time NOT realizing you are in your UNDERWEAR because, well, you have been sick but the dude STILL doesn’t recognize your presence and so he goes to the store without the one thing you needed like ONE POSTAGE STAMP or a small bottle of bottled water because it really DOES taste better than the tap and as they round the corner away from your house they leave you standing on the porch stomping your feet like a five year old throwing a temper tantrum over Captain Crunch cereal while the neighbors look on in wonder and enjoyment, laughing, putrid VULTURES they ARE, eating popcorn and sitting their fat asses in lawn chairs so droopy in the middle from BUTT that you can’t believe they don’t just fall through to the pavement looking like a fat sloppy human turd being flushed down the toilet...
Anyway, so you quickly run your half dressed booty back inside and go back up the stairs to call the supermarket and some middle aged whiny CLOVEN OF HOOF guy with an anxiety complex on the other end of the line acts as if simply by the tone of your voice you’ve called in a bomb threat on the freakin’ GROCERY STORE, and you are completely INSANE and should be straight-jacketed that very instant but he says he’ll relay the message if he can find the guy which shouldn’t be hard unless he is BLIND since the OBVIOUSLY DEAF guy in question will be the only one coming into the store wearing flame patterned orange and black pajama pants in JULY and when the phone does finally ring you run to pick it up and your guy barely has time to wearily utter “hello” in a barely audible and frightened whisper because the phone jack is broken and the little cord that hooks to the wall has fallen out because you have a cheap piece of SH*T Wal-Mart five dollar NOT cordless phone upstairs because you decided to put the good expensive ($15) cordless HELPFUL phone downstairs which is stupid because you aren’t ever even down there for anything anyway except when Head Start daycare does a house visit and you have to sit and offer them tea somewhere...
So you just usually hang out upstairs which is what caused this problem in the first place and so you hang up on him accidentally because FATE that stupid HO find this all VERY amusing and by the time your guy does call back, you pick up the phone and have to hold it speshul so all the pieces don’t fall out of the bottom, so you are standing in this awkward position looking quite SPESHUL yourself and you are so farking frustrated that you don’t even say hello when you pick up the extension but instead you just let out a demonic Satan possessed shriek of DEATH into the phone so ear-splitting that you might as well buy the guy a hearing aid now to avoid the messy civil suit he will no doubt be bringing against you in the near future when he realizes that just because you couldn’t LIVE WITHOUT some Dannon FRUIT ON THE F-CKING BOTTOM STRAWBERRY BANANA YOGURT you are now having a full scale “adjective for being cheese-grated over a cactus naked” mental breakdown on the other end of the line causing him to lose 90% of his hearing ability for the rest of his life which wouldn’t have been very long had he been there with you at that exact moment anyway.
Don’t you just hate it when that happens??
Yeah. I thought so.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Murder in a Gray Room.
(This is the first ever exercise I did in the first ever creative writing class I ever took in college. Something about how a setting can be a character, if I recall correctly, which I probably don't. Came across the file and thought I'd toss it up here. You know. For guffaws.)
Murder in a Gray Room
Truth is, one can only be the "giver" for so long anyway before feeling they are only being taken.
The room felt smaller by the second. It was as if each moment ticked and fell away from the flat little clock while the walls moved inward, forcing the focus of everything into the center of the room, where we now stood. Light trickled in through a single window, smoldering enough to illuminate our faces but shadowing everything else in shades of pale gray. We could still see each other. Sometime during five minutes of silence that felt like a few lifetimes, even the oxygen in the space began to weigh more. It took a struggle to breath it in, causing lungs to feel overworked and chests to get tight with force and effort.
There were enough chairs, but no one sat. The pressure of the room kept us upright.
So we stood there, air heavy and burning with stale breath and heated tension, like a thousand pounds of callous air hung around our necks from a short thick string. Troy said nothing, head bowed in a coagulated silence, staring intently at the carpet until his eyes must have hurt to be in his head. He was rubbing a groove into the floor, smooth and flat underneath his dark boot. A small sense of dark irony tapped me as I realized the carpet and my heart were both being crushed in much the same manner at the very same moment.
“Honestly, it’s not you, it’s me. I know that sounds so cliché but...” Troy trailed off, still refusing to look up at my face.
I had heard that sentence before, but only as the butt of a joke on some poorly written sitcom. These are not things real people say to one another in real life when one purposely breaks the other’s heart like so many other everyday detached actions.
I glared at him, into him, trying hard to find those sweet things about him that made me invite him into my life and my bed in the first place. I had snuggled into a warm fuzzy blanket of the words he said, covering myself up, wanting desperately to believe he meant all that was whispered softly into my ear so many lovely nights before this one. He worked a slight of hand, a magic trick of making the world sound so good, simply to snatch those dreams away before I had a chance to really grasp them in my shaky, wanting hands.
When I could find nothing there except a film of cold selfishness squirming and writhing in the face I once adored, my tears stopped falling. I knew he did not love me, could not protect me. I stopped wanting to be with him. I stopped needing him to stay.
Instead, in this microscopic lifeless room, I began thinking of all the ways I could kill Troy.
I closed my eyes and shut out the threatening darkness of the room to the welcoming darkness of my mind. Behind my fiercely clenched eyelids, I longed for a nuclear weapon, scaled down to size, a tiny piece of mass destruction complete with a little red button to turn him into a pile of ash and dust easily scattered to the wind and forgotten. I wished hard for a knife, a crossbow, a hammer, a large rock, a small petry dish with the tiniest drop of Bubonic plague, a rabid tiger who hadn’t eaten for several days, a virus-infected mosquito, a Satan-possessed twelve-year-old with a temper disorder, a noose, a gun, a really big high-powered automatic gun, a stick, a straw; even a KFC spork would’ve easily sufficed at that moment.
I thought of all the ways to make his heart ache as mine did, to wash him in pain and agony, to burn out his eyes with the misery of having happiness dangled just out of reach in front of one’s craving body like so many shining silver trinkets.
Troy lifted his eyes from the enthralling sight that was the floor and stared at me, still wanting something of me, not done with his special brand of torment yet. He clearly had no idea of the thoughts flashing in my mind; I was purely hoping he’d drop dead at that very moment. What else do I have that you have not taken? At once it hit me, slapping me hard – he wanted my permission to treat me like trash, to use me up, to keep me here in this little gray room and be his emotionless toy.
“Can I still come by some night? You might get lonely.” Even in the dark, the smirk forming at the corners of his mouth was unmistakably confident. Somehow the sound of his voice managed an echo, resonant even in this small vacuum of a room.
Troy and his smile oozed slime and pestilence equally. The air temperature continued to heat, seemingly causing slick sweat to form on the surface of everything. At any moment the grayness would start to wash off of the walls and furniture and mix with the dripping sweat, flooding at our feet in puddles, submerging us until we drowned in it.
It was then I realized the only way I could genuinely murder Troy, to slaughter and have any true sense of justice done.
I turned around, taking away from him the sight of my face, the place where my smile for him had been. I stole myself back. I left him in the dark place where the love in my eyes would no longer shine to light the world as I gazed upon him. I shut Troy out, left him behind and standing in that gloom-filled place, letting him drown in shades of sadness and the sickly sweat of death and decay that reside in the stifling heat of a little gray room.
I walked out. I left him there. And I shut the door hard behind me.
Murder in a Gray Room
Truth is, one can only be the "giver" for so long anyway before feeling they are only being taken.
The room felt smaller by the second. It was as if each moment ticked and fell away from the flat little clock while the walls moved inward, forcing the focus of everything into the center of the room, where we now stood. Light trickled in through a single window, smoldering enough to illuminate our faces but shadowing everything else in shades of pale gray. We could still see each other. Sometime during five minutes of silence that felt like a few lifetimes, even the oxygen in the space began to weigh more. It took a struggle to breath it in, causing lungs to feel overworked and chests to get tight with force and effort.
There were enough chairs, but no one sat. The pressure of the room kept us upright.
So we stood there, air heavy and burning with stale breath and heated tension, like a thousand pounds of callous air hung around our necks from a short thick string. Troy said nothing, head bowed in a coagulated silence, staring intently at the carpet until his eyes must have hurt to be in his head. He was rubbing a groove into the floor, smooth and flat underneath his dark boot. A small sense of dark irony tapped me as I realized the carpet and my heart were both being crushed in much the same manner at the very same moment.
“Honestly, it’s not you, it’s me. I know that sounds so cliché but...” Troy trailed off, still refusing to look up at my face.
I had heard that sentence before, but only as the butt of a joke on some poorly written sitcom. These are not things real people say to one another in real life when one purposely breaks the other’s heart like so many other everyday detached actions.
I glared at him, into him, trying hard to find those sweet things about him that made me invite him into my life and my bed in the first place. I had snuggled into a warm fuzzy blanket of the words he said, covering myself up, wanting desperately to believe he meant all that was whispered softly into my ear so many lovely nights before this one. He worked a slight of hand, a magic trick of making the world sound so good, simply to snatch those dreams away before I had a chance to really grasp them in my shaky, wanting hands.
When I could find nothing there except a film of cold selfishness squirming and writhing in the face I once adored, my tears stopped falling. I knew he did not love me, could not protect me. I stopped wanting to be with him. I stopped needing him to stay.
Instead, in this microscopic lifeless room, I began thinking of all the ways I could kill Troy.
I closed my eyes and shut out the threatening darkness of the room to the welcoming darkness of my mind. Behind my fiercely clenched eyelids, I longed for a nuclear weapon, scaled down to size, a tiny piece of mass destruction complete with a little red button to turn him into a pile of ash and dust easily scattered to the wind and forgotten. I wished hard for a knife, a crossbow, a hammer, a large rock, a small petry dish with the tiniest drop of Bubonic plague, a rabid tiger who hadn’t eaten for several days, a virus-infected mosquito, a Satan-possessed twelve-year-old with a temper disorder, a noose, a gun, a really big high-powered automatic gun, a stick, a straw; even a KFC spork would’ve easily sufficed at that moment.
I thought of all the ways to make his heart ache as mine did, to wash him in pain and agony, to burn out his eyes with the misery of having happiness dangled just out of reach in front of one’s craving body like so many shining silver trinkets.
Troy lifted his eyes from the enthralling sight that was the floor and stared at me, still wanting something of me, not done with his special brand of torment yet. He clearly had no idea of the thoughts flashing in my mind; I was purely hoping he’d drop dead at that very moment. What else do I have that you have not taken? At once it hit me, slapping me hard – he wanted my permission to treat me like trash, to use me up, to keep me here in this little gray room and be his emotionless toy.
“Can I still come by some night? You might get lonely.” Even in the dark, the smirk forming at the corners of his mouth was unmistakably confident. Somehow the sound of his voice managed an echo, resonant even in this small vacuum of a room.
Troy and his smile oozed slime and pestilence equally. The air temperature continued to heat, seemingly causing slick sweat to form on the surface of everything. At any moment the grayness would start to wash off of the walls and furniture and mix with the dripping sweat, flooding at our feet in puddles, submerging us until we drowned in it.
It was then I realized the only way I could genuinely murder Troy, to slaughter and have any true sense of justice done.
I turned around, taking away from him the sight of my face, the place where my smile for him had been. I stole myself back. I left him in the dark place where the love in my eyes would no longer shine to light the world as I gazed upon him. I shut Troy out, left him behind and standing in that gloom-filled place, letting him drown in shades of sadness and the sickly sweat of death and decay that reside in the stifling heat of a little gray room.
I walked out. I left him there. And I shut the door hard behind me.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
I'm Ageist but You're Old.
So, Trojan is trying to sell these finger vibrators on TV like that's just a normal thing to do. It's at least slightly better than those nasty Girls Gone Wild videos, but wow if that's not saying much. Here's what I'm talking about:
What really bothers me though is the commercial, not the product. See that old lady with the red hair and comical overacting via her continuous sighing and cartoony disapproving facial expressions? Every time I see this commercial, which is eighty billion times a night because I watch Comedy Central after midnight, I just want ninjas to jump onscreen and drop her for ruining something that's supposed to make me happy, dammit.
Or maybe at some point, one of those two girls could just turn and uppercut her out of the chair for being a nosy bitch.
But more than anything and though I know it is completely ageist, when she tells the girls where to get the vibrator online, I just want so badly for them to go, "EW! You're OLD!!!" and then run away.
Screaming.
Because that lady is scary, dude. Scary.
Or maybe at some point, one of those two girls could just turn and uppercut her out of the chair for being a nosy bitch.
But more than anything and though I know it is completely ageist, when she tells the girls where to get the vibrator online, I just want so badly for them to go, "EW! You're OLD!!!" and then run away.
Screaming.
Because that lady is scary, dude. Scary.
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