Thursday, March 26, 2015

Your Name Here


I’ve been threatening to write out how different Horoscopes deal with me. I don’t give a shit about them, but I’ve noticed a startling trend that I’m going to share. Previously, I wrote the general definitions of each horoscope, which I can’t find so to hell with it. These are how each sign responds to/how I handle them/me. I have a thing with slashes right now. Keep up. Because I can’t find the other entry, you guys can have the one where I detail how mean I am to Nardo (Libra). Read his path of torture here: here.

Aries: These are the people I always battle for the spotlight with. Occasionally they’ve said something that’s sprouted a chortle from the corner of my face, but most of the time I’m so freaked out by their laser eyed staring to focus. Seriously, they stare. When they want you to touch their body, Aries don’t wait around for you. They can please themselves just fine, but god damn it, when they want to have someone else for the leg work, you’ll know it. I’ve literally been stared at through an entire daytime date, just, in the eye, while I attempted feebly to make small talk and not have my brain explode on the booth behind me. They said nothing. The handprint on the steamy window of her car was from me, not her, trying to claw my way out. Some part of me is still there, screaming.

Taurus: I’ve seriously and stone-face defined heartbreak with these people. There’s something about them that I’m attracted to beyond anything I can actually feel. More often than not, if I like someone and can’t handle my shit, they turn out to be this sign. Two out of three people I’ve been horridly, grossly in love with have been Taurus; none of which reciprocated. It’s the curse, I guess. If sirens were still the number one threat to man’s will, they would be Taureans. Look at their plural term. Look at it. Even in plural, they sound neat as fuck. God, I love them. 9/10 in the sack.

Gemini: What the hell is the matter with you people? You’re always so beautiful but your personalities can’t decide to be agreeable or bullshit. I get the entire “two faces” thing, but jesus christ, you people don’t even have a shift between hot and cold. You can be laughing one minute and Mike Tyson comin’ at my ear in the next. Every single one of you assholes needs to come with “handle with care” stickers plastered to every part of your skin. I mean that in the sense of transporting a live IED and not in the sense of your flux emotions. If that’s what you can call them.

Cancer: Aspergers. All sorts of aspergers. You people are smart, but you take so incredibly long to crack open. You’re great partners, no doubt, for people willing to mill around and figure out what the fuck your problem is. For anyone interested, I’m planning on writing a questionnaire you can use to actually talk to Cancer’s. By planning I mean that I’ll forget about the end of this sentence. Cancer’s almost always hate me right off the bat, even if I don’t say anything, and thusly I’m attracted to them immediately.

Leo: selfish pricks who really suck at spelling. I dated a Leo cheerleader once, which is essentially like saying I dated a narcissist who firmly believed it was their birthday every single day of the year. They always have great hair, and typically find themselves more comedic than me, which is a mortal sin. I don’t like their music, and I’m jealous of their hair. All of the time. Forever. I hate you.

Virgo: you’re me, so you’re perfect. Occasionally I meet a retarded Virgo who didn’t get the memo that we’re pretty smart and charming as hell. When that happens I suffer a crippling moment where I want to take them in and teach them Flowers For Algernon style. Strap them to a chair and just beat them if they attempt to end sentences in prepositions or consider anything released musically in the last five years acceptable. For me, Virgos have always been the people that make cynicism fun. There’s nothing like people watching with a sniper rifle. Of words, I mean. Sort of.

Libra: They are fascinated by me, personally. I don’t know because I’ve never asked, but if I tried they’d likely talk over me to ask me more questions about me. You’d think that I would absolutely adore the people who do this, but in reality they are typically perma-friends. I’m sure the universe put them on this planet to create some sort of friend-safety-net thing just in case someone asks if I have friends I can say, “Yeah.” Every Libra I’ve met is my number one fan, but only as long as they remain in that delusion. They’re typically pretty ADHD so as soon as one remembers I’m not cool, I can typically change the subject back to the best subject, which is me. I said “me” five times. Um, six. (I’m still cool. Did you check that tab you opened? I’m still cool.)

Scorpio: occultists. According to the internet, scorpios are supposed to be the sexually charged sign of blah blah blah, whatever. That’s Aries and Taurus; there’s no way in fuck a scorpion looking symbol has anything to do with sex, not unless, you know, you’re into that. Not to mention, every scorpio i’ve met or have banged is an occultist. Wiccans, Craftians, Satanists, Atheists and people who really hate organised anything, including religion. Although I wouldn’t say they’re dumb, scorpios are the pinnacle of “it made sense in my head”. They’re also either really rail thin, or hugely massive. Not sure what happened there.

Sagittarius: twenty-four years alive on this marble and I’ve never met one. They’re ghosts. If I ever meet one that this point in my life, the first thing I’m going to do is throw water on it to make sure it isn’t some weird projection or something. You know those orbs people claim are dead people in pictures? Those are Sagittarius. Get it right.

Capricorn: dopey and stubborn. Any and all Capricorns I’ve met and dated have come off as the most retarded yet endearing humans. Like three year olds that live in a lifestyle of “meh, close enough”. To be blunt, they’re probably the creators behind the word, “meh” which I fucking hate beyond any other word in the English language. They are also the most stubborn assholes I’ve ever met, but that same stubbornness works alright for at least until they lose interest if you give them a task they think is fun. Think dangling keys to keep baby quiet.

Aquarius: an aquarian made a joke to me once and I haven’t stopped laughing. They’ve always made me laugh the hardest with physical comedy. It could be their sluggish behavior or the odd shit that comes out of their mouth, but anytime I meet one I end up crying. In a good way. Good cry. Good cry is alright. They can go anywhere between sitting next to me for hours just playing a game to forcing me to play hakisak drunk. If you have anything around your house and you’ve wondered who invented it, an Aquarius probably did. Those useless Japanese inventions? Aquarians. The entire site of “FAIL”? Aquarians.
 
Pisces: conversationalists. These people can talk to me. They know how long to keep a conversation and they have great topics. Typically they even share my interests, which are the only interests anyone needs to have in the first place. Everyone of them I know lives their life in a state of disrepair. Shacks, apartments with no heat, dorms they have to share with Mormons; any and all disrepair. Coincidentally, they also get angry over the most selective shit I’ve ever heard. I think it’s because they sort of rig their way through life; when an odd husk of an issue arises, they explode on it. I can get behind that.

Monday, March 2, 2015

White Skin Tights

Let it be known, single ladies are powerful. They can manipulate other women without saying a word, and in some cases, don’t even have to known each other. Single women can influence another person they never knew existed (typically a weaker, sometimes less than desirable female of the breed). What I mean to say is that I showed interest in a woman who has a child. No dad in the picture. Perfect time for me to step in. Can’t be hard, right? Give the kid a candy or some shit and give the mom a (read: my) bone.
Single moms usually hit that point where they don’t give a shit about any gender as long as they can find a way to chill out and not have to deal with any real shit, while somehow feeding their kid and making sure everyone is clothed enough not to have anyone report them. That’s initiative I can get behind. “Just enough” is pretty solidly my mantra, so you can see how single mothers and I could find a meeting a point.



Facebook has a habit of bringing people together. Mostly people you don’t want near you, much less be together with, but it’s the only entertainment I have without cable. Fell into this number with a kid of her own that lives somewhere around 3000 miles away from me; a perfect distance for a relationship with yours truly. All manner of attractive, she has it all: mental issues, B-daddy issues, financial issues, doubts, bad dreams, and a mean addiction to jewelry and some other smack. She’s stubborn enough to talk despite not wanting to, I’m jaded enough to keep a safe distance. Perfect, right?
Except no one told me that as soon as you get one, you buy the dozen. Not as in this woman had eleven other kids or anything--fuck that--but about eleven other single moms suddenly took interest in my pathetic excuse for a persona. Behind door #1 we had this beautiful, 3000 mile distance brunette with the pains of life crawling outta her mouth. Behind door #2 we have local, home-grown, smile and friendly with every issue in the book and kids who can make full sentences. Mix and repeat for the next few doors, and you see my situation.



I like to think I had a choice in what was happening. That way blame could come sit in my lap and I could pay it, like every other decent whore-ish bad thing that happens to do that. But no. No these women just started coming. Then coming. Then “coming”. I’ve spent the past three weeks popping oxy for door #2 and door #5, valium for doors #3 and #4, and hydrocodone for the absence of door #1. This morning I had wine and sushi for breakfast, followed shortly by a comfortable lunch of Subway, prepared by two teens and a meth head. Dinner was ice cream cake, a packet and a half of chocolate & strawberry pocky, and so far eight or nine beers. I don’t have a diet anymore because I don’t have time. Single moms demand a lot of attention. I’m actually writing this from the bathroom in pieces, and just realized I’m out of toilet paper.
My point is, because of Facebook, other single mothers saw that I was (at least temporarily) capable of maintaining the (sort of) happiness of a single mother. Coupled with the very public fact I’m not the worst person to tumble with and you find yourself being a woman’s free vibrator that also babysits your kids and makes you feel young again. I’m naturally not going to stop this train, so for all the single ladies and their pleasure (seriously), here’s my resume:

Name: Anything you want it to be
Age: Legal drinking
Height: 5’9”
Sexuality: Snatch is pretty cool
Gender: Female (non speculative)
Talents: I’m an alcoholic, I read, and I can drive.
Specializations: cunnilingus, JRPGs, binge watching television shows

Thursday, January 29, 2015

sorta like jan of 15

Springfield, MO: I punch my shower until it shatters. 

Joplin, MO: Drinking and driving. 

Somewhere on Route 66: Gas is $4.99 and everyone is from 1950. 

Santa Cruz, CA: Ambient apathy. 

Santa Cruz, CA: infamous hammock. 

Santa Cruz, CA: mandala soup makes old man hands. 

Santa Cruz, CA: preaching the gospel of blue mountains to curly headed folk. 

Santa Cruz, CA: since named "green shit" AKA brandy and monster. 

Somewhere, NM: that mountain wears halos. 

Phoenix, AZ: a challenge to warm every heart. especially mine.

Tucson, AZ: Pannie-B and his own green. 

Phoenix, AZ: I start drawing again.

Phoenix, AZ: changing tires, rotors, and break pads. 

Tucson, AZ: before I punched someone i've known for almost 20 years, after Pannie-B was done with this shit. 

Tucson, AZ: punched him too. but he wanted it. 

Tucson, AZ: drew again. 

Tucson, AZ: underdressed for every event; having drinks bought for me. 

Tucson, AZ: PANNIE-B.

Tucson, AZ: digger digs 6 strings. 

Tucson, AZ: J and B. 

Tucson, AZ: Pannie-B's Ma. She got me drunk and gifted me a lighter. Obviously a God. 

Tucson, AZ: Diablo Burger. 

Tucson, AZ: relevant stall work. 

Tucson, AZ: spicy pickle from a glass jar. 

Cliff Castle, AZ: "Luke" the dishwasher hunchback and vanilla shake.

Tucson, AZ: Hell is for Heroiks PT 2. 


Texas.


New Mexico 15

I had a dream in New Mexico that I was sleeping with my good ear to the stars. My kneecaps creaked in a rusted way against the rocking of the 2008 KIA over a pothole stricken stretch of highway. There wasn’t a sound. When I lifted my head, fluorescent suns caused my eyes to yawn in reverse. It had been pitch black a few seconds ago, maybe. There was about a hundred miles of water that needed to get gone, so I punched the door open and attempted to take in some air before I started walking. It was a gas station with no customers, despite being a small illuminated planet on a starving interstate. A man was pushing a broom; he looked at us, almost past us--disinterested. A short pot-bellied creature that had a skull with a sharp drop from the back of his crown to his neck that seemed forlorn beyond being employed at a gas station in the middle of nowhere.
He gripped the mop with his other hand and pointed to a dark hallway, speaking low and without emotion, “Bathroom.” It took me a moment, but I realized he had been talking to me, despite having not quite let go of the door yet. At the moment I can’t remember the name of the gas station or even where we were at the time. Sheriff took his leave the opposite direction and I cautiously creeped into the women’s restroom, which until I made my way toward the back wall, was entirely pitch black. Lights came on as I treaded to a stall furthest from the door, buzzing and clicking to life like what happens when a moth meets man. Over the speakers, a country song plodded away: “Going home to Missouri, going back…” I hadn’t noticed it until a few seconds after I flushed the toilet, and honestly, didn’t quite think it was real until I came out and saw Sheriff’s face. “Did you hear that? That song?”
“Yeah, you too?”
“Isn’t that creepy?”
“A little.”
I yawned and rubbed at my eyes while he looked around the hallway. It was something out of a prop corridor for old movies from 1960. Masks, horns from bulls, arcade machines, and collections of toys stuffed in every nook and cranny. We stood there trying to wrap ourselves around it all. That’s about the time my eyes met something I hadn’t seen in years--Rehoboth Beach salt water taffy. I grew up on the stuff, it’s not something you can just get. Next to it sat a candy counter featuring rock candy, the ones that look like stones; a candy I used to eat when I lived in Georgia and hadn’t seen since. Sheriff and I stood there for a few seconds more while I repeated, “I hate New Mexico; it’s creepy as shit!” over and over. Still not believing I was awake, I looked around for coffee. That’s when the little man finally spoke.
“What you look for?”
“Oh, um. Coffee.”
“Here, I get for you. Nothing to do now, anyway.”
“Well, thank you.”
We took a few steps back as he made his way apathetically around a space station looking machine that produced the hottest coffee I’d ever stuck my mouth near. While paying for it, I turned to Sheriff.
“He sounds Japanese.”
The man turned his head, “I am Japanese.”
“Honto? (Really?)”
“Hai, honto. (Yes, really.)”
“Watashi wa no namae wa, Raki Rosu. O namae wa? (My name’s Lucky Rose. What’s yours?)”
“Hitoshi desu. (Hitoshi.)”
“Yoroshiku, ne. (A good pleasure to meet you.)”
“Yoroshiku. Why you learn Japanese?”
“I wanted to go there.”
“Why?”
“Culture. Art. History.”
He slid his palms around reflective countertop, “Yes. Culture.” Hitoshi took his time detailing where in Japan he was from, why customers weren’t around, and how America needed culture. Sheriff, being the flesh manifestation of the American Flag, took it all in good humor. We said bye and made our way back to the car feeling supremely surreal. The parking lot was piled high in snow, which we failed to see anywhere else.
“If we turn around right now, will we see the lights of that gas station?”
“Hm?”
“Was it even real?”
I laughed. Nothing shakes the bear. Seeing him like that warmed a part of my fingertips.
“Let me get this right; A Japanese man in New Mexico. A song about going back to Missouri. Your candy. Was it real?”
“It had to be a dream.”
“....Whose?



Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Zero To Hunnet Real Quick

No one understands me. I mean, I speak English, so statistically there are people on earth who can understand what I’m saying. This isn’t one of those melodramatic statements, either. The language I speak is different. I’m actually one of those people who get spoken to and not necessarily with. Unless you’re a woman, and I’m arguing with you. That’s a two person sport and a sport in which I have climbed the ladder to achieve skills in the highest echelons of bastardry.
The difficulty I have is when it comes to trying to give advice. I’d say that’s the place I have the most issue communicating to the people around me, who in most cases really don’t want to be there anyway. All and all I feel like I give pretty good advice; I have some critics---but those who don’t appreciate my advice typically didn’t want to be bothered at 4am with a phone call detailing a better way to dispose of pen ink.
I’m never sure if my advice was a learned skill or something I was born with, having been born in a Italian family, which nods automatically into people who break noses by flailing their hands in conversations and eat way too much. It’s not a stereotypical Italian family--we have the loudness, the physical conversations, and certainly aren’t lacking in letting people know how we feel, no matter what feeling it happens to be. We love to talk, and when you’ve got a lot of people who like talking, you’re bound to hear some things you should and should not hear. But we aren’t that close to one another. It’s why I believe I have no real issue with being talked to and not with.
This has bled to online, where I’m viewed as an entirely relaxed if not “zany” individual because I wasn’t hereditarily born with that thing that says, “You shouldn't say that.” Coupled with my disregard for social tact, it leads to all sorts of mixups.

I went downtown a couple of days ago to walk around and listen to normal people talk about normal things. It’s sort of like listening to white noise, except occasionally someone shoulders their way in your door and tells you that your pants stink and you need to shower. That’s me giving advice.
As I was rounding the corner from the square with a new girls number in my pocket, I had decided that I would give advice to the first complainer I heard. It didn’t take long, sitting at the bus depot, before a stranger sat next to me and starting in on why his life sucks. He said a myriad of minimally interesting things, and after awhile he told me he wanted to kill himself. My first reaction is to scream, “Do it. Don’t waste air.” but this time I took a different approach. Turning in the seat I started to slowly explain, “No you don’t. Pain keeps us real. Did you know that if they gave you the amount of pain medication that you would need to not feel anything in a hospital, it would kill you? Yeah, really. Your body’s adrenaline keeps you enduring and alive. If you try to quick-solve pain, you die. Isn’t that interesting? Don’t think the pain you’re feeling is something unbearable. You’re bearing it now, you know? Every second that passes is more proof that you’re surviving in places others people probably wouldn’t.”
I felt a little proud. It was really hitting home. Except that’s what I was trying to sort out to say and not actually what I said. What came out was, “Don’t be a pussy, maggot.” which was met with absolutely no thank you or well wishes. This isn’t a rare example. I have tried a lot of times.

Setting: woman doesn’t want to tell her husband she’s pregnant with another man’s child.
Me: What you did was spiritually and ethically wrong, but you’re a grown woman and you need to treat this with the respect you didn’t give anything else when you let it happen. Talk to your husband and work out what happens next. Ask yourself if you want to other man to be in your child’s life, and consider the circumstances: did he cheat on his wife, too? is he already a good father? is he financially stable? that kind of thing.
What I actually said: You’re a heartless whore. Now you’re a pregnant heartless whore. Good job.

Situation: your best friend tries to seduce you and you’re not interested.
Me: I’m flattered that you would feel this way to me, and I do really love you, but I’m not interested in you that way. You’re a good guy though, thats why we’re friends. If you’re upset, I understand, and I’ll try my best not to make it worse for you, but I can’t lie to you. I’m sorry.
What I actually said: Why are you being such a little bitch right now?

Situation: someone you trust stole from you.
Me: You know what you didn’t wasn’t right at all, and because of that I can’t trust you. Tell me what you needed it for, and we can work out how to get it if you really need it. But I won’t allow you to be near my belongings or carry money for me ever again. Let’s work this out and piece together what we need to do and we’ll go from there.
What I actually said: Give it back, before I gut you with the back end of this cheese block.

Situation: a one night stand drank too much and is embarrassing themselves at your house.
Me: Are you okay? Let’s get this out of your system and make you comfortable. You had a little too much to drink and you shouldn’t drive, so I’m taking your keys. You can sleep in my bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch until tomorrow. Here’s a shirt and pants you can get messy.
What I actually said: (laughs uncontrollably)  

Situation: your girlfriend of three years ruins your ability to give a shit about anyone, with a story so complicated and interwoven to a previous four year relationship that you can’t explain it in one blog post.
Me: I’m not going to lie and said we gave it our best, because we didn’t. You didn’t try to understand me and I didn’t want to be a cookie-cutter lesbian couple who buys a big house and raises several children. At first you wanted me to marry you and it was a big thing, then you said you wanted to just get married. Then we argued. I didn’t want to. I stood firm on it. I left a state with at least $60,000 and an escalade and came back to that state after moving away with debt to a landlord, an old KIA, and some cheap bookcases. You wanted me to play nice to your family who I knew would turn on me on a dime, and I wanted you to see that it was the truth. The second I stood up for you when you needed it, they persecuted me. I wanted you to respect me and see how much I do for you, you wanted to sleep with other people who have done nothing for you. You told all my friends I abused you; I told all my friends not to talk shit about you. I paid $4000 out of pocket in addition to turning in the escalade for that KIA, you talked me into putting it in your name. I told you the man that raised me is dying of cancer and became upset, you said “why are you acting like I don’t understand?”. You cheated on me with a guy that had herpes, I forgave you. Your mother said, “What you really needed was a man.”, you didn’t speak to her for 3 days and somehow you still thought her and I would be friends. I worked a dead end job for a shit paycheck in a town that wanted me dead for being smart, you told me you wanted to go out to eat more. I wanted to see you on my birthday, you invited a guy you were interested in to my birthday party, where he was rude to me and left early. You texted him intermittently through the night. You literally broke my ability to give a fuck about anyone; to have any trust in anyone ever again. I text you when we have plans and wait for you to tell me good morning on the day you and I set aside for each other. You spend the morning with him, who literally has done nothing for you and never would.  






What I actually said: “Have fun! :)”

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

No 1 Wts Ur Mixt8p




I started writing this really bad poetry; it took up a good chunk of my idle time. Like many great young bloods out there, lookin’ for a break, I was determined to make someone read my horridly interpreted words and suddenly feel everything I felt while writing it. Although I didn’t know how to play a guitar, my friend thought she could fake her way through it. We were set to become another grand emotionally outbursting band that performed absolutely drunk with little to no direction on how to actually play an instrument. The only real drawback was that neither of us could sing, so we had to change our genre from “slightly unstable lesbian suffrage” to “sexually curious women who can’t handle any of the situations unfolding right now”; read: Emo band with boobs sings about pussy n’ phone calls. But what--if anything--can you write about at that age that people haven’t already heard a million frustrated times before? Keep as close to your mind as possible, my friend and I weren’t trying to be famous. We were very bored.
No? Can you think of something? Its a bit difficult when you have to factor in curfews, drinking age, and high school. Applying any or all of those in one song makes it country. Still no? Well, I’ll tell you. I sang about observations. My desires spawned directly from how many questions that popped up when I went about watching people do things. If it was a girl I knew, and she kind of liked me, then she was going to be hyper observed; see also: stalking, harassment, restraining order. At the height of my life as a musician, I was popping oxycodone like M&Ms, drinking more whiskey than water, and generally being an asshole about everything I could even see straight. I had accomplished in two short months that which takes normal musicians at least one good song and several years of repetitive drug abuse. Even after we retired to pursue our different dreams of graduating high school and becoming a police sketch artist, I persisted in the drug and alcohol abuse. Why the hell not? How exciting can a life as a police sketch artist really be without copious amounts of narcotics?
By the end of my career as a musician, which I didn’t even learn to spell until just this moment, we had a few tracks floating on the internet. Our entire album was a piece of memorable angst, captured in all the glorious quality of free track editors and coffee can solos.

Teacher Only Fucked My Friends: Tales from a free GED classes in Joplin by The Rubburbands

Track 1: She Doesn't Own A Landline
Track 2: In Monotone
Track 3: I’m Gay
Track 4: Everyone’s Lips In Arizona are either Too Fat or Too Skinny
Track 5: Homeless People Only Take Exact Change  
Track 6: Eat that Faster, Slut
Track 7: Water Temple Ain’t Shit but Liquid and Bricks
Track 8: Chinatown Has Nothing To Do With WWE
Track 9: Called her Mom on Accident
Track 10: Her Cheap Brazilian Waxed my Moustache  
Bonus Track: Didn’t Fuck In San Francisco








Sunday, November 2, 2014

Had!

At exactly 9:43p.m. I was sunk back-first in a mattress with a single, unforgiving spring pressing a knot in my shoulder blade. This is not when the event occurred, and actually if I’m remembering right, it wasn’t the place either.
The event itself was documented on a frail, practically transparent diner napkin, about 3’’x 4’’, during a shift change I wasn’t present for. It is written in temperamental black ink courtesy of a pen charitably pilfered from a doctor’s office against its will. And this napkin is what I was thinking about at around that time. What I am sure of, is that the event has occurred, and that it’s forever going to be considered occurred, as long as the napkin doesn’t get wet.

I was invited to a wedding, and to my relief, it wasn’t my own. Someone had dressed me up for the thing, and I wasn’t unsure I had been asleep for it. When I came to, I was standing on a cropped grass hill that blocked the eighteenth hole of a ridiculously large golf course. I only know this from the blanket memory of looking over my shoulder to see a congregation of infuriated men in hats. Golfers hats, maybe. But definitely hats. My first thought was apologetic, seconded by the burning desire to run as fast as humanely possible away from them, in case they were the Bride’s side and this fiasco was a shotgun wedding. I have this innocuous warmth about being drawn into situations where this happens; where I’m blamed for something biologically impossible. Like pregnancy or sobriety or something. I believe they kissed, the Bride and Groom, or at least I hope it was the proper people for the environment. If not I had been one of many witnesses to their first reason to be divorced.
A hoard of well-dressed immigrants took to hiking back up the hill to reception, and I waited until one reappeared with something wet before I made my own way up.

“Do you have beer?”
“I’ll need your ID, and we aren’t even open yet.”
“I uh, but there’s people walking---”
“They’re Bride’s side. You have to wait.”
“I’m Bride’s side.”
“Really? You weren’t at the rehearsal.”
“I was late. I’m always late to events with ‘hearse’ in them. For good luck.”
“Right. Well, you’re going to have to wait. Sorry.”
“Is that a keg?”

I left the fat lady to deal with herself and found a table. I needed a goat, and the table my shoes tripped me in happened to be cropped with two registered nurses and a man with a mop for a face. Good timing, really.

“Where did you get that?”
He sipped the foam, “From the keg.”
“Get me one?”
“Are you old enough?”
“How are we counting?”
“Okay.”

This entire thing was morose. How long was I going to have to suffer this shit? My slacks were cutting of circulation to valuable parts, and the nurses had decided to wear almost no makeup, which gave me nothing to focus on. The alcohol was kicking in, and no one was fighting. What kind of chess club was this?
Mopface never came back to the table. I had seen this kind of thing before, when I went to prom with myself because my date braved downtown Key West for beer and never came back. I mean he never came back. Ever. No one has seen this kid and it’s been eight years.  

When the going gets tough, the tough resort to petty whining until something is done about their grievance. One of the nurses took it upon themselves to get me several plastic cups worth of keg beer to shut my mouth, and with all due respect, she deserved it. But once our livers were all sufficiently doused we arrived at the same area of conversation as before, with less understanding.
The event I’m attempting to write down is what happened in the women’s restroom in the hotel. You see, after quite a few beers I excused myself from no conversation whatsoever to get some peace and quiet. I’ve learned in few years of existence that women’s bathrooms are neither peaceful or quiet, but I was counting on the fact everyone was dancing or dying or whatever happens at weddings.

In the bathroom, I bumped shoulders with a woman who very forcefully claimed she was with the wedding party. Though she wasn’t wearing dress clothes and her face was pot marked from overuse of meth, I decided to believe her. Mostly because she made this claim while passing a drunk stranger in the bathroom, and partly because I hadn’t said anything that would merit the outburst. She stopped while holding open the door, “Do you believe me?” I held my beer to my mouth and nodded. Typically this means the conversation is over, and all parties can disperse. There was a big enough pause for me to make my way into the handicap stall, sit down, and light a cigarette. Her face suddenly appeared in the gap between door and frame.

“Do you believe me?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look like you believe me.”
“Lady, I don’t care if you’re in the wedding party or not.”
Her feet shifted weight under our shared wall, “Why not?”
“Because I have no idea who invited me, but whoever it was would have known I hate these things, ergo it doesn’t matter who you are because it doesn’t matter who any of these people are.”
She stuck her wrist under my door, “Can I bum one off of you?”
I sighed loud enough for it to echo; or I burped as my hand lethargically stuffed a cigarette pack in her palm. Then her feet were gone, and the women’s restroom was quiet.
That meth head jacked my entire pack of American Spirits.
“Son of a bitch.”
“You, too?”
If I had not been sitting on a toilet, there would have been more of a mess then there was happening in my nerves. “Jesus!” I said, dropping my smoke into a crack of the tile.
“Sorry.”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘you too’?”
A pair of feet suddenly appeared in the stall next to me. “She asked for toilet paper from me. I’ve been stuck in here since.”
“She took an entire roll of toilet paper from you?”
“Well, no…” the voice said, shying away from further questioning. I decided to circumvent an entire exchange by unraveling my entire roll and tossing it over the separation, then unhinged my lock and started out.
“Um, thank you.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome.”
“No, I mean for the smokes.”
“What?”
Before I could turn around, the meth head zoomed by me at probably an average speed for addicts, cackling at something in the air. I stood there for a few moments, trying to get ahold of what the fuck had just happened to me at this wedding, in this bathroom, with that woman.


I returned to my table in an understandably disagreeable mood, and took out a pen, writing down what had happened. At some point I did look around for that woman, and when it failed I asked about her. Nothing returned any answers. It stands to be one of the more alluring moments I’ve had in a bathroom, but certainly not the most vexing.