|
|
 One day, Helmut was flying across the country for fun, and he noticed a rainbow. He flew down to the end of it, and saw a giant pot of gold. So, he airlifted it back to the shack where his family lived. His ma and pa were ecstatic once they got to the bottom of where Helmut had found the gold. At first, they were worried that some mobsters or heroin dealers might come looking for it; but Helmut explained about the rainbow and set their minds at ease.  After two years, Helmut and his parents had nearly burned through the gold. They had bought many wonderful and joyous things and invested quite a bit in real estate. They lived in a huge mansion and drove many splendid cars designed specifically for winged and non-winged equine persons. It was exactly on the 2 year anniversary of Helmut's airlifting the gold that the leprechaun first showed up. Helmut's mother was in the tan room of the mansion getting ready for her tanning session when she heard a small voice say, "where's me gold?""Vat? vat is dat you say?" "where's me gold?" "I do not know vat you are talking about. Now go avay little man! shoo! I am trying to make tan."  The pegasus climbed into the tanning bed and set the timer.The leprechaun thought for a minute and then acted. He sang an auld tyme lullaby, and wooed Helmut's mother to sleep. After she was sound asleep, he used leprechaun magic to zap the tanning bed into overdrive. She turned into jerky. And everyone thought it was the bed that malfunctioned and no one blamed the leprechaun.  On Tuesday, Helmut's father was playing golf at an exclusive, non-winged equine, country club. He had just finished a beautiful drive straight down the fairway, and he was driving the cart to finish the hole when he heard a voice say, "where's me gold?""Pardon me sir, but I haven't the foggiest idea of what you are on about. Are you addressing me?" The leprechaun persisted, "where's me gold!" "I am afraid you'll have to leave. This is a non-winged equine only club, and you sir, although non-winged, are not equine. Good day sir!" "Where's me gold?" "I said, GOOD DAY SIR!" With his chin lifted high, he turned is rear toward the leprechaun and kicked dirt into his face.  This made the leprechaun furious. With a mighty heave, the leprechaun shoved the ass, and the zebracorn lurched forward and got his horn stuck in a ball washer. The leprechaun sprang up and closed the washer, shearing off the horn, and helmut's father died. Everyone thought it was an accident and no one suspected the leprechaun. Also, the country club was cast into a perpetual season of alternating winter and summer in east-west strips across the property which had the opposite effect on membership that you would think it might have. When Helmut heard of his father's demise, he knew neither it nor his mother's demise were accidents. He suspected the leprechaun that had been hanging around the mansion asking "where's me gold" to anyone within earshot, and he could guess who was next. He found the leprechaun and offered him a deal. In exchange for showing him where the gold was, the leprechaun had to promise not to hangout at the mansion anymore, and not to kill Helmut, even if it looks like an accident.  The leprechaun agreed. Helmut told him that the gold was hidden in a forest counties away. It was buried near a tree with blue ribbon tied around the trunk. The leprechaun left the mansion, and Helmut got on with his extravagant life.What Helmut had done was tie blue ribbons on all the trees in the vast forest. He guessed this would buy him enough time to live a happy life while the leprechaun dug around every tree. Many years later, Helmut, his wife, and his children where enjoying a ride on the Rollercoastagus ride at an exclusive, winged only, equine amusement park. All of the sudden, the rails came undone, and Helmut and his family, unable to get the bar on the coaster car to release, plummeted to their death. 
Possession
In the depths of her mind they finally stood facing one another, and Sylvia realized that she had known the demon all along. It was her mother who had first introduced them. An unused fizzer rolled from Sylvia’s lax hand, the forgotten inhalant tumbling to the floor. Ancient fast food wrappers, decaying clothes and refuse from the thriving cockroach population filled the dilapidated room. Innumerable cylindrical dispensers in which the toxic narcotic was sold mingled with the chaos, lapping at the edges of the filthy couch where Sylvia now sat. Eyes glazed, a yellowed worm of drool slowly working down from the corner of her chin, the apparent overdose went unnoted by the passing roaches, as they were intent upon their business of living. Inside Sylvia’s mind however, was an entirely separate world. At the moment she found a formless space, thick, velvety dark. She could somehow sense a being before her, regardless of her inability to focus clearly on it. A cold emptiness seeped from it (him?) to settle upon Sylvia’s skin, solidifying her knowledge that a presence was in fact there. A sensation of familiarity rushed through her once more, and Sylvia drifted with it into deeper portions of her mind, to where a memory dwelt. Faded linoleum peeled from the warped corners, and a four-year-old girl rolled her bright red ball toward the wall in the dingy kitchen. The distorted floor gently rolled it back to her tiny outstretched hand. Wearing nothing but an adult's tee shirt knotted at her hip and a diaper that hadn’t been clean in days, Sylvia seemed content to play this game indefinitely. Hectic music was blasting through the whole trailer, poorly masking the guttural sounds of indulgence from the adjoining room. With a shriek of laughter, a haggard woman clothed in only stained panties whirled into the kitchen. Greasy clumps of her long yellow hair spun over her bony shoulder as she crossed to the refrigerator. Wrenching the door open, the smell of rotted vegetation mingled with the chemical stench that permeated the tiny room. Sylvia rolled her ball. The woman pawed briefly through the sparse contents of the fridge before her concentration broke, and she quickly scanned her trailers kitchen for further entertainment. When her eyes flitted over Sylvia, her features softened into a caring gaze before her thin eyebrows pushed together and her face contorted into a grimace of concern. Squatting onto the back of her heels, she regarded the oblivious child. “Sylvia? Hi kiddo. Still got that ball, huh?” Her mother pushed a rogue strand of hair behind Sylvia’s ear lovingly, vying for the child’s attention. Sylvia held the ball clutched loosely before her, eyes downcast and very still. Her mother leaned forward and straightened the rumpled shirt, old sex and methamphetamines rising from her pores and enveloping Sylvia. Sylvia’s tiny nostrils flared, relishing the intimate contact. “Well look at that, why didn’t you tell me that you needed a fresh di-de?” Her mother tugged the sodden diaper off and tossed it absently into the sink. The damp skin rippled into goose bumps, puckering the thick rash that had taken residence in Sylvia’s flesh. “I’m going to get you a new one, and then everything will be okey-dokey. Wait here, peaches.” Jerkily pushing back to her feet, Sylvia’s mother swept back out of the kitchen and into the darkened din on the living room. After a moment, Sylvia’s delicate little fingers stole to the knot at her hip. By the time that the song thrumming through her home changed, she had finally succeeded in loosening it and pulled the old shirt down over her thin legs. Then Sylvia resumed rolling her bright red ball. Sylvia hadn’t seen her mother again that day. Something else had been in the trailer with her mother then, and Sylvia had always known that when it (him?) was there it was best to be quiet and wait. A vast dimness blurred the edges of the memory, before deepening into the black of ethos once more. Sylvia’s mind drifted deeper into the pool of her thoughts as the overdose flowed through her brain, and a bit of song occurred to her. “It seems what’s left of my human side is slowly changing, in me.” She couldn’t remember if it was off of Disturbed’s first or second album, she only knew that it had been playing. Playing the first time, the first time someone had told her. The time David had told her. David was perfectly wrong. He came from the wrong family, rode the wrong motorcycle, and hung out in all of the wrong places. He even went to a few of the seedier bars downtown. Sylvia had been seeing him for over a week and knew that he had more depth and insight than all of the other boys at Dreston High put together. They were at the gravel pit, listening to David’s new Disturbed album on his portable player when he first told Sylvia that he loved her. In that one instant her entire world changed size and shape; no longer would she have to dream alone. While she digested this moment of ecliptic hope, unfamiliar warmth flared through her. She felt every strand of her devotion to David. David sniffed another line, eyes over bright and a sly grin stealing over his perfect mouth. Preferring action to words, Sylvia longed to demonstrate her equal devotion to David. She reached forward, gently taking the small mirror and cut straw from him. David’s grin spread as Sylvia finished his cocaine with several short gasps that whistled through her nose. A quick fit of coughing seized her as the thick taste of the drug coated her unsuspecting throat, then passed. Love and desire mingled inside Silvia, fueled by the coke. Body thrumming from the over stimulation, she lunged forward into David’s waiting arms. Sylvia hadn’t thought anything could possibly hurt that much through the chilled buzz of her nerves, nor did she expect any blood. Nonetheless, she was pleased that she could make David understand her love, and would have given her virginity to him a hundred times more if possible. It was all for the simple love of him. She would never be virgin again for him, so instead she embraced his passions as though they were her own. Her love and this newfound need began in tandem. As her conciseness broke contact with the memory, Sylvia felt her heart harden another layer. She felt embarrassment at her own inexcusable naivety, regardless of age. Had she really ever bought into that whole ‘love’ mess, ever? The darkness surrounding her conciseness thickened, and once more she knew of an immense presence before her. Waves of masculinity reminiscent of her last night with David (oh how it had hurt, there was still a ring of scars on her breast) enveloped her. A sense of familiarity drew her closer to the unyielding presence. He (it?) was the demon with which she had shared that first line. The coke had been nice for a while, but it was risky. The aching emptiness had never been handled with that drug, only glazed over. Then a couple of years later, at work in a nude bar, another dancer had something new. It was something that could finally complete her. Sylvia remembered. Working as a stripper was almost a drug of it’s own, and Sylvia had become accustomed to a more comfortable life than previously known. There were always men doting on her, and with the twitch of her ass or the gleam in her eye Sylvia could have most everything. It wore her down to maintain the constantly enticing façade, so she found that there was always a customer armed with ecstasy, a taste of coke, even the occasional ride on the H train. They always expected more after the bar closed, but that was how it is. Sylvia had learned that if you let them take you home, they used what ever they could to take you away. A regular customer had been giving Sylvia steady rides home from work for the past two weeks, and she was having a harder and harder time staying focused without the yummy brown rocks he used to persuade her. She was sitting at the make up counter, nodding off again, when Lexis came in the dressing room. “Girl, you need to wake up. There’s a bachelor party at table seven, and they need that white booty.” Sylvia dredged herself back to conciseness. “You got a little pick me up?” Lexis laughed a little, and opened her locker. “I got something, alright. You try a fizzer yet?” She reached into her bag, and pulled out a small plastic apparatus. At first Sylvia’s thought of an asthma inhaler, but it was cruder. Instead of a metal canister containing medication, there was a small plastic bubble the size of a spool of thread. “It’s kinda like meth, but it don’t screw up your teeth or nothing. It’s just gas, you just breath it instead of having to smoke it like that crack you been messing with. I’ll let you try this one for twenty of the dollars you about to make.” Sylvia wrapped her hand around the fizzer and placed her mouth on the reciprocal. Closing her hand, there was a pop as a tiny globe in the bubble ruptured and mixed with the surrounding gas. A hiss like alka-seltzer was barely audible, then a sweet taste flooded her mouth with a rush of air. Breathing deeply of the unfamiliar drug, Sylvia felt her mind explode with an exuberant rapture that she had never suspected. Everything was bright, and pleasing. A thousand orgasms seemed to fight for dominance throughout her entire system, and she couldn’t wait to share the joy that was her being. She felt as though she would explode if she couldn’t have someone, anyone, to ride this with right now. Dropping the spent fizzer in the trash can and mumbling thanks, Sylvia got on the floor to sell this light burning suddenly inside of her, and maybe she’d be able to find some more for after close. Sylvia had fallen into the truest love she had ever known that night, and she'd married herself to a demon. That demon stood before her now, face to face finally in the throes of her overdose. She had known him her whole life, kept him as a constant companion, and felt no fear now. Just a dim sense of awe and gratitude, that he would usher her away from a life that only his presence had made tolerable. She found that she could see clearly here, and his form was an awesome sight to behold. He was a behemoth of muscle, rippling slabs of chiseled ebony forming a near human man. The eyes betrayed his nature, ice warping the smoldering rays of the sun. He spoke in a voice that echoed off it’s own power, reverberating through her mind. “You have come to me, and I offer your peace” As his words slipped through her brain, Sylvia felt the stirrings of that long lost rush, that first rise of ecstasy with a first hit. “You needn’t want ever again, finish your oath to me. I will sustain you.” The stirrings rose, divinity clamoring along the nerves she no longer possessed. Sylvia felt his desire, knew his need to possess her body the way she had given him rein in her life. Fearful of losing that last bit of herself, she hesitated. The spike of withdrawal, serrated and cold, slashed to her core. Consumed with need she flung herself to his feet, oblivious of everything but his hunger. With shaking hands twisted into the claws of necessity, Sylvia grasped his calf and uttered the only words she could think of. “Yes! My body, my life, is yours! Give your love back to me!” Sylvia felt him bend in the growing darkness, hands impossibly large along her back, her head. He settled between her quaking thighs, prodded her body with the thick meat of him. A short gasp hissed from her clenched teeth as he entered her, and Sylvia felt exhilaration soaring through her senses once more. She closed her eyes and nested with her bliss to the back of her mind, relinquishing all else to her demon. On a dirty couch, in an abandoned building, a demon woke up. Its eyes snapped open, the cold blue flickering before focusing. It stood, kicking debris from its way. Sylvia trembled as the demon settled firmly in her body, and turned her mind away as it opened the apartment’s door and was unleashed upon the world.
At some time in my life, I was someone's princess. I was pumpkin, sweet pea, darling- I was someone's beloved chip off the old block. I was a not quite ripe apple that had fallen from the proverbial tree, and although, the tree was positioned on the climax of a steep incline, I did not roll too far. However, I yearned to ride the wind. Tittering upon the brink, paternal winds saving me from the swift fall, keeping me, and my sisters from the swift declivity. So close to the brink- it was just a question of when we'd fall. Full of optimism, I longed to be reconnected to a stem, so that I could feel the sweet wind of my father. For the bond between the tree and I, it was thin to start, but, for the first eight years of my life, I remember sprouting. I fondly remember the wind, and yearning to be a breeze- to be like him. With optimism, I hoped to fly free. To be like him, to be a daddy's girl. However, the tree was a stubborn one- so close to the edge. There is no marriage between the winds and nature, just amiable business deals. They are awkward bed fellows; a union between them is a direct result of Bacchus. To place apples, and winds aside- to leave behind the childish imagery that comforts me through the day-- I can say, my parents never married. I don't know if they considered marriage ever, however, I know that it wasn't a plan. To my memory, they shared a bed if mother was home (although, I think she never slept alone.) However, my mother was a substance abuser. A victim of narcotics, and alcohol, as some would say. And for all that she was, I do not hold anything against whom she has become. It is only in text, and heart, that I allow myself to call her mother. It is familiar, and other names make way for explanation that is unnecessary to this attempt. I wrote nothing for mother's day, all my feelings for that day, went inside of a card. The words were brief, and scribbled in sloppy manuscript- half curved letters, loopy syllables, but mostly chicken scratch. Although, I have long forgiven her, I have forgotten how to love her. And to the thoughts of embraces, and Kodak moments, my throat clenches. I have also forgotten how to pray, and I think it was when I clasped my hands with sincerity for the last time (around the age of ten), and got on my knees, and whispered to whomever it concerned, “ Please God listen- nah, this isn't Margaret, or the usual call to ask for you to make me an animorph.” I think I asked for my family back. Not my slowly morphing, and developing family. I wanted my little white house on the corner back, with it's wire fence, and tall oak in the yard. It was in a poor neighborhood, but thinking back on it, it's one of the richest images I hold. However, parents aside, I digress- this is for him. I want him back. Thinking of that little white house makes my eyes burn, and I can remember the Cadillac in the yard. His pick-up truck is still there, and he worked so late- I would await his arrival. Midnight adventures to the laundry mat, or to a small ice cream parlor. I am waiting to run out of the door, barefoot, unafraid of the glass on the asphalt or the gravel, and run to him. With his late nights, came my education of soft core 90s pornography, The Real World, and hair removal infomercials. His Cadillac may have been a burgundy color, and I remember the rose in the backyard. It wasn't a bush, it was just one, alone. We planted many together, however, only one bloomed- or so, I think. It is hard thinking of land that you haven't seen in a long time. Once nostalgia has eaten the memory, it is never quite the same. Always so tender. I can't remember my father's voice. However, I am proud to say, I had heard it before. More than many can boast, and I have known his approving hand. However, the moment overwhelms, and I am forced to restart. Whenever I look back upon my childhood, I am nostalgia's whore. Alas, I must put my emotions aside, and throw away the silly putty I call a heart, and start to think back on my childhood. To give myself to reason, and to just think on my childhood, I wonder if the right side of my brain shall allow it? I am a dead man's daughter. He was once a mechanic, and I was once a child. As a mechanic's daughter, it is not quite like that of being a preacher's daughter, however, there is a certain reverence. Pious, I am a sexless manifestation of regret, and disappointment. I am shaped like a child, and in such a small body-- I want to reassure you that when you are a child things are so much easier. I shan't, but things seem easier, because people wish it so. No one wants their young to experience the same tragedies, and so, they coddle us. However, from a young age, I always knew the shit had hit the fan. People act as if we can't smell it. As if we can't hear the yelling, and like animals, we sense the wounds, the pain, the bills. It looms over us, and the lack of explanation lends toward a fantastical reasoning of our own. And it seems almost artistic, and precocious, this reasoning. And you're glad for such innocence, however, with our parents continual denial of simple truths, we become torn, tainted, and fucked individuals. To my father, I just wish that honesty could have been the thing I remembered most. But, even though my allegiance to him was eternal, I could not soar like the wind. I was too close in shape to the tree, and it was wholly impossible. Despite my allegiance, I feel that my betrayal of my father was inevitable. I have not seen my father since I was eight, and the last thing I can remember of him, was his back storming out of the house. And how, I wish that he hadn't left me with the disaster. What was to come? Foster homes, orphanages, children's homes- a year of confusion, and pain. Although, I am not a child of anger, I feel that as the years go on, the rage grows. There are things inside, I shall not call it a beast, or monster, just nasty self truths that go untold. That just manifest, and one day will take hold, and ruin me. To this destruction, I call it a small justice. Punishment for not being able to pick a side, for being a lily-livered bitch. I can't tell you when I slipped down that declivity, but, like anything inevitable- it hurt like a bitch. It was a day there was no wind, and so there was no comforts, and now padding for my falls. I lost my father a few days after the New Year of the new millennium. And in that New Year, I hoped that I could see him. To say, I was sorry. To say that at the age of 10, of 11, I'd realized that the troubles upon my shoulders are too much to bear. However, I was sorry for the past, and that-- In my throat is a cry, and as I closer to being closure to this, I feel as if I'll dry heave upon despair. I suppose, I've got to let it out, to go with my day. So, I guess, for now- I'm walked in this circle, and become lost in the thought. I have not won the bout of emotions yet, of this journey. I am not strong enough to do so. I suppose with that, I can merely conclude that, I miss my father. And perhaps, when my mother dies, I will miss her too. However, I am unable to reconnect to the stem, I've learned. And perhaps, once I've died, and become apart of the Earth again, then as dirt, ash, and dust are kicked up by zephyrs, will I be able to fly along with the wind. But, until then, maybe with a little dirt, I can fill the holes in my heart. Perhaps, it is best that I can just say, I taught myself how to ride a bike, for bicycles are the middle class vehicle showcased as a building experience between child and parent. I just wish my father could hold the shotgun at my wedding, and reluctantly give me away. I just...want...to hear him say, he's proud. That he's a little upset I still talk to strangers, but that he's glad I've got my grandmother's good looks. Is it silly? Pathetic, to keep yearning for this- to be apart of this bastardized demographic that's endlessly yearning for paternal acceptance. We. We are soldiers of disillusionment, but with our boot straps tied tight- we are only hopeful, as we guard the door, waiting for him to show up. To come home.
In thirty or so years, I'll be seated upon a recliner, regaling some Shrink-a-dink with a notepad with the stories of my youth. I will label this section of my life with an assortment of sticky notes, and there will be one titled, “Youthful Rebellion by Mao Tse Kelly.” Because, I'm pretty sure my life by this time depends on jokes at the expense of the Reds and Super Powers.
There's nothing like a little youthful rebellion. Looking back at the slave holding, Indian raping, fathers who helped found this great democracy, rebellion seems only natural. We fought for this land that was claimed as a sanctuary for a bunch of prudes and bible peddlers. It only seems natural that in youthful rebellion comes steel, germs, and sex. As for steel, I chose to pierce a piece of flesh, as tender as a hymen, my septum. Did it hurt? I want to say no. The piercer said, I took it like a pro. But, I think that even prostitutes have moments when at the moment of entry, she feels something she wasn't expecting, and proceeds to cry. It was something like that. When the needle grazed the skin, and pressure was applied- the first few seconds was hell. My body tightened, and the air I had previously inhaled was a pocket of stale morning breath in my chest. And I could hear the needle making it's way to the other side in those seconds, and it was quite a squishy sound. And suddenly it was over, and someone called me a champ. My muscles relaxed, and I just let the man hovering over my face do his job. There was a sharp prickly feeling in my sinuses- you know when you snort something weird up there, and your eyes tear up? That's what happened. And you know that feeling you get when you want to sneeze so badly, and it hurts. And usually, despite everything you don't sneeze. Well, don't worry, in this experience, there was no disappointment. I sneezed. In the midst of sneezing and crying, I told him, “Don't think me weak. It isn't my fault. My eyes are crying.” He thought I was joking, and spoke of natural reactions, and what everyone does. My eyes were burning from the mascara, and I wondered why I thought it was a good idea this morning. Between the black clumpy tears, I realized that I wanted him to stick something else in my skin. I wanted to feel it again- my heartbeat was leveling, and the rush was over. It wasn't the brief moment of pain, but I'm guilty for the exhilaration. Like standing on a cliff- I don't want to fall, I just want the anticipation. With the arrival of the summer, comes my attraction to the sunlight. Each day, an adventure, and there is a wealth of germs in my daily commute to work via public transportation. My allergies are quite severe, but the more I'm out, the better. My immune system isn't half bad, and it's a brilliant concept. I work in a “sex shop.” A place where rabbits run free, there are always good vibrations, and the rivers overflow with lubricants. I wish working here did not cause people to inquire about my morals, to raise an eyebrow, and assume things about my sexual activity. Perhaps it tickles me most because I'm barely legal. I'm the youngest employee so far, and it's quite entertaining to card my peers as they enter this house of sin, and deny them pleasure. “Oh, I forgot my ID...” “Sorry, pal. I really wish I could.” Wide-eyed, and usually pigtailed, I stand behind the counter, and watch those that partake in carnal pleasures I can only have nightmares about. I bounce around the shop as a medley of one hit 90s tunes bleed from the stereo. A woman, with wrinkly, prune-y flesh that like a camel, seems to hold the water she bathed in the night before, ironically needs my help with a lubricant decision. “Sure, I'd be happy to...” I smile, and walk over the shelves of lubricant. She leans over, and confides that she is no longer as wet 'down there' as she used to be. She holds up her multi-speed and featured vibrator and asks me what I'd suggest for this particular to so that she may enjoy for as long and whenever she'd like. “I want to stay wet...” “Did you try a fire hose?” However, I bite my tongue. It hurts so good, that I immediately bend over, clutching a shelf, and spank myself. The woman passes me a gag ball, and spectators grab a paddle each; it's suddenly Friday night at at the carnival, and this is Whack-A-Kelly. “Have you tried our silicon-based products...” I continue, and drift. Perhaps, I've blinked and shrugged off this particular thought. It is in this blink that I find myself in front of a group of adults - it's Saturday. To each male, a beautiful companion, and they're roaming the shop for laughs. “Do people really...” “Oh, that's too funny.” “Ewwwhahaha.” A woman cackles with her head thrown back, and it seems the store returns to being silent- or perhaps, my thoughts are silent. It isn't until I see one of the males from earlier- no friends, no companion- walk into the shop with purpose. I see in his steps, he's been here before, and he grabs what he needs. Without my asking, he takes out both ID and credit card, and he lowers his head a bit as he asks for me to turn the bag inside out. I finish the transaction, and he's on his way. The truth is sex is funny, sure. But, in all seriousness, it's not a big joke. Kids and adults of all ages come in and laugh about it, probably because they're really a bit too immature to cope with the fact that sex can make or break your relationship. That it can ruin your life. They also tend to forget that this is a retail store- and, no, I'm not a complete sex maniac. I just work here, and that's truly where the assumptions of my toy use should stop. However, I do know how plenty of toys work, but I've no way to have experience with them. “What the difference between...” A man waggles his eyebrows to the two packages of cock rings-one made out of stretchy material, the others metal. “Well, sir, one's metal. And the other isn't.” “Which one would you use?” “You know when I decide to whip out my fat cock, I prefer the feel of metal.” “You know, sir, I'm ill-equipped to answer this question.” The common sense of some people who enter the store, well the lack thereof is totally frustrating. I can't tell you what your girlfriend would like, but at times, it seems I'm paid to role play with these people. This place is not a sex hot line either, contrary to popular belief. If you want to know what I'm wearing, please, by all means call and ask me how to get to the store. And then you can see for real. A man calls the store and our conversation goes as follows: Me: Evenin', Pleasure Place? Him: Can you help me out? Me: (auto-pilot) We close at midnight. Him: No, no- can you help me out with a date? Me: Lemme get the calendar, I think it's Saturday still. Him: No, no- a bdsm date. I need a girl do you know how I can get one? Me: Um. Him: Where should I look for a girl-- Me: You can ask the internet. Have a good night. And, really, you can. A simple search should lead you to alt.com, bondage.com, and there's always craigslist. Ewwmomentplz. WE CAN NOT EXCHANGE USED PERSONAL ITEMS. “But, it didn't fit--” No. “But, it didn't work--” No. “She didn't like it.” Sorry, bub. We test all the products to make sure they're working BEFORE they leave the store. So that you don't come back and complain to us about it. People just seem to lose their common sense when they enter the store, because they seem to assume that we don't care if they act creepy or lame. This isn't a support group for creeps. I wish people didn't assume we wanted to know about their creepster lifestyles. There's a man who calls everyday, and he sounds like he's a bit over forty, from the midwest, and he can't stop calling our store. He really gets off telling us about his toy usage and tricking newbies into telling him about products, and their details. So he called, and I picked up, and he starts off by asking if we sold a certain brand. And I reply with a yes, expecting a question about inventory, but instead he praises the store and product. However, what I didn't expect was for him to go into detail about the use. And I thought that was odd, because his unsure tone sounded insincere, and suspected foul play and hung up. A coworker informed me that he called EVERY day. He actually called again that night, this time pretending he needed to know about toys made to keep up a man's penis. And I nearly fell for it, about to go into detail about cock ring, herbal stimulants, and such, but handed the phone to a co-worker who said, “You've got nothing better to do with your life, have you?” He a. recognized her voice, and b. immediately hung up. It's weird. But, I feel like in my time I've dealt with enough creeps. But, despite, how jaded I think I am, some people take me to a new high, that I never wanted to experience. But, in short, although this was nothing close to being short, I like my job. My nose is healing quite well, and although with some exceptions, people don't really like it as much- I do. And with growing up, I realize, I don't do things for others anymore. And if that's a lesson I had to learn now, I'm glad for it. Maybe, I'm a little late on this wisdom, but oh well. Better late than never. My septum piercing has proven to be a pain in the ass sometimes- but, I really do enjoy. I really love my daily commute. It gets me out of the house, and walking about. Doing stuff, even if it is a routine. I've traveled all over D.C. so far and it's been a lot of fun. With the summer comes long days, and late nights. Chinese food on rooftops, and loud music. Coffee shops, and smoky dens filled with conversation! I love sitting on the roofs of parking lots, and buildings with my friends looking at the sky. It is blank and polluted by lights. It is the only sky I have known. A starry sky is like a luxury, a privilege city dwellers gave up for speed, townhouses, and opportunity. Sitting in clearings, smoking hookah in a circle, and regaling my friends with tales of my singular existence--it's what I live for right now. I'll have other things to give myself to, and when school starts, I'll panic and flirt with disaster. But, for now, I just search for some inner peace.
That’s what I thought too... Sometimes, when I’m bored and I can’t seem to shake the memories, I like to search their names on Google. I can find interesting things, like hometown news articles and memorial websites. I thought that maybe I wasn’t the only one. I thought maybe I could write something that one day their friends and family might come across. Apparently I was mistaken. Due to some of the comments here, I would be horribly embarrassed and ashamed if their loved ones ever came across this article now, so I have removed it. Thanks. Instead, I will tell you a little about the lives some of you are so quick to dismiss. Most are mid-westerners. They are good-hearted farmer’s sons. Prior to 9/11 they knew little about the rest of the world. They believe we were attacked, and they stood up to answer their nation’s call. They believe in America and freedom. They believe in it so deeply and passionately that they will sacrifice their own life to preserve it. Foolish? Ignorant? Sure... But it is damn respectable. The same goes for those who were on the other side of my front sight post. Out-manned, out-gunned, against an enemy they can never defeat... Yet, still they fight... They fight so damn hard... They fight for what they believe in. Equally respectable. Now, seeing as how some believe in opposing views so deeply and passionately that they just couldn’t help themselves from making it known here, on a post I wrote to remember my dead friends, heroes, and comrades, I can’t help but wonder... Perhaps, if they had the courage the men they feel no sympathy for had, then they would do something about it, instead of sitting around patting each other on the back and congratulating themselves on how indifferent they are. I refuse to allow the memory of my friends to serve as your soapbox. |
Charter
|
Legal
|
Privacy
|
Contribute
|
Clear Cookies
|
Back to Top
|
RSS
All works © 2001-2008 by their respective authors and Think Attack.com; All Rights Reserved.