and she began a sentence this way: “The guy I’m currently banging…”
How cool is that?
Hahaha. She cracks me up.
and she began a sentence this way: “The guy I’m currently banging…”
How cool is that?
Hahaha. She cracks me up.
It was a fine Fall morning when I left for the mall, credit card in hand. The air was as crisp as burnt toast and the radiation was on Low. As I drove, I was secure in my intentions: to appease for a time the hungry naught of my soul with a little madcap consumerism. I thought of things I didn’t need, licked my chops, and stomped even harder on the gas.
Shorty after I roared into the parking lot, however, I was gripped with scientific curiosity of the entomological sort and entered the mall bug-eyed for insects.
I never found any, despite a solid hour spent squatting up and down dozens of aisles, but I did find a lot of nifty dust under a display of foot-long novelty vibrators in Pandora’s Key, the erotic giftshop. The dust was a like I’d never seen. It possessed no color or texture of any kind, absorbed the same amount of light it reflected, and smelled both musky and ashen. I thought it would look much better under my couch or behind my fridge—if only I could get enough back home, that is. I knelt there, frustrated. If only. Everything, it seems, ends in if only.
But wait! Wasn’t last night Tuesday night? And, like every Tuesday night, wasn’t I out robbing graves? And, like always, didn’t I forget to take the shovel out of the trunk and put it back in the shed? Yes!
I was off at a full gallop through the mall crowds, my arms thrust out before me and my hands clenched into a single giant fist like a scooper on a steamer locomotive. I may be an unsuccessful grave robber—if only they didn’t bury people six feet down—but I was determined to be a successful collector of dust.
Some time later…
”Excuse me, sir?”
”Yes?” I panted, wiping my forehead on my sleeve.
”What are you doing?” It was the Manager. His polite tone and concern for the goings on in the store was not what gave him away, but the oppressive stench of liquid paper.
”Collecting dust,” I replied, holding my nose.
”I see,” he said uncertainly. “You’ve got quite a pile there.”
”Fuckin’ A. It’s taken longer to get this far than I thought.” The Manager looked unsteady and extremely pale. It seemed he would topple over in a faint any second. With a trembling, frail-looking hand, he wiped away a gooey blotch of white from the end of his nose. “Do you realize,” I asked him and leaned on my shovel, “that there isn’t a single insect to be found in this entire mall?” I swung my arm for emphasis, nearly smacking him in his ghostly face.
At this, he regained a hint of color and stiffened with pride. “Took care of the little fuckers myself,” he said with a grin. “At least in this store.” He produced a can of Raid from somewhere inside his uniform.
”All of them?” I was shocked. “Every last one?”
”Every last one,” he echoed gloatingly, like an ugly man who had finally gotten laid.
I was irritated. “I don’t know what you get out of it, but I get a sore back and arm from all this goddamn shoveling. If I would’ve found an insect, just one, I wouldn’t be working so hard for something futile. I’d be dismantling it.” I clanked the shovel to the floor, sat down cross-legged, and pouted.
The Manager began to fidget. “I’m…I’m sorry. The last thing I want to do is piss of a consumer. I hope you’re not too upset. I really didn’t know it would lead to this—honest. If I’d have known it would piss off a consumer, I wouldn’t have done it.” He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially in my ear, “You see, I’m only the Assistant Manager.”
It dawned on me: no WONDER the liquid paper stench was so strong!
early-onset-of-night replied to your post: stfuracists replied to your link: Please reblog… What’s wrong with a gay-straight alliance anyway? I know you guys aren’t one, but still….Anyway, I signed and reblogged. Not sure how much value it will have since I don’t go to your school, but always support this stuff :)
Well we originally (almost two years ago) had appealed for a GSA and it was fought over and fought over and it just didn’t happen. Because our school board is made up of dumbass bigots.
I fucking hate bigots.
never realizing that the real treasure was the fond memories they were creating.
especially the mouth part of the face.
That is, uses StumbleUpon? If you do, would you do me a solid?
Recommend my writing to other Stumblers by clicking here
Only if you actually like my writing, of course :)
It’s my drug of choice. I occasionally smoke some pot, too, but drinking is funner to me. However, alcohol is a powerful, dangerous drug and I try to moderate it. If I have a 6-pack, it should take me 6 hours to drink it. I get a little silly. I get a little happy, but I don’t get stupid. Or sick. Or hungover. I get buzzed and feel perfectly fine in the morning. Perhaps a tad tired, but generally it’s cuz I was up late and not because I drank.
That’s around the house. Social situations are tougher. Do I drink at the same rate as the people I’m with? We’re at a bar, say, “partying”, and drinking fast: I used to. Every time a round came, I’d drink it. Now, I do weird stuff, like switch over to water for awhile. I get looks, but it’s ok.
I love to drink. I love how alcohol makes me feel, but only up to a certain point. Then I hate how it makes me feel.
This has been a responsible adult post.
So I was in line, slowly dying because everything was taking forever. I hate lines. I looked around for something to focus on, but it was a bank and that meant blank. It was boring solidified, boring made three dimensional. They say Jesus was the incarnation of god. I have serious doubts about that, but I know for a fact that banks are the incarnation of boring.
Over to the left was the little bank waiting area. There was an older guy sitting there alone amid the financial publications and Wall Street Journals. He was staring at the floor, which seemed like a good idea. I began staring at the floor, too, feeling my life slipping away one second at a time.
I began to hear a ringing, like an old phone. When I was a little kid, phones rang, like, with real bells and shit. That was what this sound was, only not quite. It was a digital representation of an old phone ringing, so it was just a bit off. In the 21st century, digital representations are commonplace. Hell, most of the people I know are digital representations.
By the way: Hello out there! Hello?
The ringing was coming from the waiting area and was the old guy’s phone. He pulled it out of his pocket, not taking his eyes off the floor and said, “Yello!”
That’s not a typo. He actually said, “Yello!” I surmised it to be a combination of “Yes?” and “Hello.” How a question mark plus a period equaled an exclamation point, however, was beyond me.
Now, here was something, something to at least listen to, instead of the lulling, muted tones of the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer. The guy was talking loud, too.
“No. No. No,” he was saying. “No, I already explained it to him.”
Explained what? I wondered.
“Twice,” the guy said. His voiced hovered between firmness and anger like a hummingbird. This was a serious call, perhaps even a business call, which made sense. After all, he was in a bank and wore the uniform of the modern American capitalist conformist: tie, button down shirt, slacks, hard, shiny shoes. It was the middle of August, so I gave him a pass on the missing blazer. If this had been October, however, I would have been forced to stab him in the liver with the nearest Quarterly Report.
“Maybe even three times,” the guy said. “He said he understood perfectly.”
Who understood what? I wondered. And why so perfectly? And how can any understanding be ‘perfect’? Now I was fascinated by the call. I liked how it was one-sided. I liked how it contained tension. I liked how it lacked all meaning entirely.
The line moved up a notch and I felt disappointment. I wanted the line to go slow now.
“Look,” said the guy, “like I explained to him, I’m not going to be a part of it unless the sizes are consistent.”
A person came up behind me and I stepped aside and offered her my spot in line. “Go ahead,” I said gentlemanly.
“Oh, no, that’s ok,” she said, using her I-don’t-want-to-impose voice.
“No, it’s fine,” I insisted.
“Really. Thank you, but that’s ok. I’m in no hurry.”
“Me either. I’m actually Mike, by the way.”
She was surprised I had introduced myself and took a second to reply. “Hello,” she said and nodded.
“And you are?”
“Jill. Nice to meet you.” I stuck out my hand. She hesitated, then touched it briefly with hers. “Would it be alright if I called you sometime? Perhaps for a beer or some tea? I’m a tea-freak, but I’d buy you coffee if you wanted me to.”
She smiled at me, a bit tightly, and raised her left hand, revealing a wedding ring.
“So that’s a no, I take it?”
“That’s a no.”
“Well, the least I could do is offer you my spot in line.”
“That’s also a no–but a no, thank you.” She smiled at me again, quickly and without meaning, then looked away.
“Fair enough,” I said, to no one now. I was only mildly disappointed that my subterfuge had failed.
I turned around and went back to listening to the guy, who was saying, “Size does matter.”
Suddenly, two new teller windows opened up and I was called forward to conduct my transaction. I felt drunk with power.
NOTE: I let someone read this after I composed it today and they had no idea what it meant. She wanted me to explain it to her, but I couldn’t. The thoughts and feelings I was trying to express were expressed in the story. That’s all I can do. Personally, I like it better than a lot of the stuff I’ve written…
The way it seems to me, people are sending their cocks and love tacos all over the internet all the time. I can’t imagine ever doing it. I can’t imagine a scenario where I would put together a series of activities the end result of which is a digital representation of my meat hammer in an inbox, pun intended.
I was with someone for years and wouldn’t even send her a cock pic—and I didn’t want her to send me one of her honey pie.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t want to see it, I do. But I want to be the one taking the pictures. It’s a way sexier situation. When I tell a girl, “A little more to the right, baby,” and she goes a little more to the right—fuck yeah.
Besides, people can’t photograph their own genitalia well. The angle’s all weird. Everything’s distorted, distended, disturbing. Even mirror pics are off. “Wait, that mole should be over there.”
Look, I understand. You’re hot and want to show it off. You should. You are hot. But draw the line at the holiest of holies.
Either that or get a cute friend to help out. If you do go this route, why not throw in some pics of hers too, while you’re at it?
Americans will eat ANYTHING. Generally, there’s only 3 requirements for what they put in their bodies: cheap, quick, tastes good, and it only has to be one of these. Right now, as I type this, there are people driving to Taco Bell. On purpose.