There are a whole bunch of drink tickets on my kitchen table that I don’t want, so if anybody wants to swing by and pick ’em up, that’s cool. I’ll leave ’em on my front step.
Last night’s alley firework battle was like being in Fallujah, or whichever city it is that’s right in the middle of all of the action. There was a huge party of people in front of us, across the street, and a group of people behind us, in their part of the alley. Every once and a while, the fireworks from either group would zoom into our little crowd, causing us to scream and scatter. Or they’d just cross invisible boundaries on either side and set something off on the ground right behind us. The boys did an excellent job. And one of them had a starter pistol, which I got to fire (unfortunately after it was empty). I think that’s the only gun I’ve ever fired, unfortunately. I didn’t expect the trigger to be so heavy. Are you supposed to do finger exercises when you’re a gun-shooting type of person?
I think I may have a slight problem with rage. Here are the two things that make me think this:
1. At the grocery store self-checkout the other day, I swiped my card and the entire fucking card reader popped off the base and clattered to the floor. In pieces. It was like it had exploded. Everyone stared, of course, for a good hour or so, I bet, and all I could do was go, “Haaaaaa…” nervously, then grab my grocery bag, and bend down to the floor to press “OK” on the broken reader. It printed my receipt and I stepped over it and left. HOW did I rip that thing off the stand and SHATTER IT?!
At least it took my angry swipe on the first try. Because I didn’t want to face the people who run the self-checkout lines. One of them is this guy who looks like Grizzly Adams and rolls his eyes and stomps around a lot, like he pretty much hates his life. The rest are annoyed overweight women who bark directions at you if you fuck up, and always say something like, “Naw, see? You done messed it up now. It’s messed up,” like by pressing “lemons” instead of “oranges” on the touch screen, you’ve started an irreversible chain reaction that ends with a plane crash into a puppy farm.
2. At work, everyone was talking about being tired, and how tired they all felt that day. Someone said, “I just want a nap,” and I said, “I don’t want a nap, I want this, like, room? Where I can go, you know? And nobody else can get in it. And there’s nothing in there, but the walls are sound proof. And I can just, like, scream. For hours. Without anyone calling the police.”
Everyone just stared at me.
Well excuuuuuse me for thinking that was a common desire. It’s MY desire, you jerks.
And here is a quote from a book I stopped reading because the high point was the top of a downward spiral into boredom. But I like this:
Goodbye, goodbye! she called out in her head as she ran, imagining the other woman he would find. She would be prettier than Jemma but stupider, and she would be the type of woman compelled to uncover the past lovers of her lovers. When she heard the story of Jemma’s behavior she would be utterly unable to fathom it.
-Chris Adrian, The Children’s Hospital
I think he read my mind on that one.
2 responses to “That shirt makes you look pretty ugly”
I, too, would like a room like that.
brill as uze.