Saturday, April 4, 2009
Bullet
My anger brewed like a boiling pot of Ecuadorian coffee roast. Each word he uttered pushed me into a deeper state of abhoration. I just wished I had a gun to finish him off once and for all to rid me of his conceited aura. His lonely and pompous persona just irked me. We are similar in that respect; both chastised by, and isolated because of, our arrogance. He did it for self-dignity, not because "the economy is in shambles" as he said and as a result my free ointment was no longer free. We engaged in a debate of wit, in which I attempted to alter his course of entrepanuery. My negotiations and attempts to gain free fish scrap were in vain. That is until a bullet protruded through his vein. Instantly he dropped to the floor clutching his calf muscle. I could tell he busted his perforators, but I withheld that information. As he rolled around in agony, I bathed in elation, as I slyly and easily grabbed my free fish scrap and ventured back to my sewer. The day was exhausting, and I was parched. Each time I readjusted my mandible (jaw bone) my tongue would scrape across the dry roof of my mouth, creating a noise similar to when you sand away at wood. I squeezed my mouth desperately attempting to wring out the last remnants of saliva left in my oral cavity. None came out. I stared at the water pipes lining my sewer thinking of how I could penetrate the steel piping in order to delve into the luscious and revitalizing liquid encased in the pipe. Simultaneous to my thoughts, the pipe burst open spraying water everywhere. I stood in utter silence, allowing the semi-powerful stream of water beat upon my chest, realizing the eerie coincident of thought that occurred today. I got Donald shot and busted a pipe; my thoughts were interrupted by the road work crew who came down to fix the leak.
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"Every Kiss" Begins with... "E"!
ReplyDeleteI notice his hand before I notice him. Actually, to be more specific, I first notice what's in his hand. It looks like a fish scrap. It is swinging up and down in rhythm, a direct reflection of his arm motion. The man's hand grips it tightly. I walk almost completely past the man before I look at him. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have. He looks like he should be the chief antagonist of the fourth Lord of the Rings movie. His face is spotted with cracked red sores, his hair is greasy and frizzled, and his eyes looked like they have lived through Dante's Inferno. I whistle at him after he's past me, just for fun. He doesn't turn around.
I suddenly realize it's high time for me to get back to Subz. I now completely forgot why I left. Did I have something to drink recently? Nope. Wait...
Back at Subz I am confronted with yet another roach problem. They have gotten into the olives. I try to point out to my dad that they are black olives, and therefore the customers won't notice, but he does not find my twisted attempt at humor amusing. I sigh and begin crunching away.
Lately I have become increasingly bothered with the "Kay Jewelers" commercial. The slogan reads "Every Kiss begins with Kay". Yes, I realize the clever attempt at a pun, but... IT'S FUCKING WRONG! "Every Kiss" doesn't begin with a fucking "K"! It begins with an "E"! "Every kiss" begins with a fucking "E"!!! Pisses me off...
Dear Su,
ReplyDeleteI just wanted to let you know that Lin finally lost the battle to leukemia. I'm not trying to give you any satisfaction by finally writing back after your persistent letters. I just wanted to allow you a glimpse of the life you abandoned. I hope your life with Ronald is worth all the trouble you caused over here.
Shan
I folded the letter back up and placed it back into the envelope. I looked outside my window, partly cloudy, to see what the "Ronald" my brother spoke of was doing. As usual, he was sitting in his sewer, scheming what was probably his next plan to "screw over" (I learned that term at the market. It had a nice ring to it.) somebody's life. I pity whoever that somebody may be. No, my "life with Ronald" was not worth all the trouble I apparently caused in my hometown. He tried to kill me. My lack of experience in the love department sure impaired my judgment on that one. Needless to say, things didn't work out. I would go back to my family, but I don't think I would receive a warm welcome. I did leave them for a psychotic man who currently resides in a sewer.
I walked back to the kitchen to taste the misua. Needs more salt.
I've been thinking alot about the conversation I had with that blind bloke at the pub a few days ago. My relationships (or lack there of) have pretty much revolved around Jojo, but that guy's questions made me realize that I'm going about this all wrong. I have been trying to interact with people the last few months through my dog. I thought it would work - you know, like those movies where the two people fall in love because one of their dogs jumps on the other? Life's not really like that. If this hell hole has taught me anything it's that. But my skewed version of relationships isn't even the most pathetic part of my life. Jojo's not real. I don't really know why I made him up. I never had an imaginary friend when I was little, I was always the kid with no imagination. When we played princes and princesses, I was always the horse: no speaking role on the playground, no need to show off my lack of creativity. So maybe I'm living my childhood, but I don't think this is how the life of a girl in her late twenties is supposed to go.
ReplyDeleteI find myself in front of Mo' Liquor. As I'm wondering how I ended up down here, outside of my apartment in the damp evening cold, a man walking quickly nearly knocks me over. I regain my balance and he disappears around the corner, taking the strong stench of fish with him. I'm completely invisible. Like my dog. And a bottle of scotch and my leftover Ambien are sounding better and better by the second.
The door tinkled as it opened. A thin, dirty man stepped through the doorway, holding a paper bag stained with oily wetness. "Ronald," the woman nodded. The man nodded back, then noticed Sidda. He glanced at her, then moved toward the counter where the old woman sat.
ReplyDeleteShe reached under the table, pulling a small metal box to the tabletop. The dusty light glinted off the face of the box. The man called Ronald reached for the box, but the woman's weathered hand reached out and stopped him. After a minute of silence, Ronald leaned into her ear, murmured, then placed the box in his coat pocket. Turning to leave, Ronald lingered near Sidda before jingling the door.