I still wonder if Brian left the notebook out purposefully. It would seem so. I guess leaving it out would be the perfect way to get someone annoying to leave you alone. I remember several occasions in which I have passive-aggressively insulted someone with the intention of burning the bridge.
Manny was a problem to get rid of. He was a scavenger, as defined by Dave Chapelle. He never had his own weed, but whenever you had some, here he came. He wasn’t the first scavenger I had ever known. Truthfully, I had a few friends who could be defined as such. What made Manny so irritating was his complete inability to handle his chemicals and the resulting damage to my property. I had already given him two of my towels, filled with puddles of his own vomit. I wasn’t feeling much like investing in any more, nor did I have any oxy clean for the carpets.
The day finally came that my idiot boyfriend was not there to welcome him. When he knocked, I looked through the peephole cleared my throat loudly. I turned up the stereo, made a fake phone call and even hit the bong hard enough to send myself in to a coughing fit. I peeked outside a couple times to make sure that he had heard me. He knocked several more times before finally turning to leave. I waited until he was at the bottom of the stairs before I opened the door. When he turned to look at me, I said:
“I didn’t open the door for a reason.” I waved and shut the door.
That clicked. We never saw Manny again. Good riddance.
Later in my adventures, I was on a date that was apparently mistaken as a platonic get together by another would-be-suitor in the bar. I am not sure what compelled me to lead him on a little. Maybe it was the brass ones he showed when he visibly admired my ass leaning over the pool table. --Admire, but please try to keep from drooling— No, maybe it was the later brazen “accidental” stroke of my left one that forced me to don a fake smile and make this guy think he had a chance. I was almost too happy to give him the phone number I had waiting. I wrote it on a cocktail napkin.
---I still have to thank the people who created the recording—
The rejection hotline informed this game-lacking ass clown that not only did I not want him to have my real number, but that the thought of dating such an individual is as appealing as “playing leapfrog with Unicorns.” Pure. Genius.
Rewind to the awkwardness of 14 and I am staring at a notebook page that has been divided in to 2 columns. One column is marked “People We Love.” Below it is a list of names that includes several of my friends, and several of my unfriends. The second column is labeled “People We Bash.” My name is second on the list; the first is my mother.
I don’t remember reacting. Brian returned to the room to find me standing by the desk in front of the open notebook. He said nothing, not even looking at the notebook. I had just arrived, but I told him I had to leave. I was crushed by my crush, but his plan was effective. I never attempted to speak to him or his friends again.
There is no moral here. How could there be?
The End.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
So I dated a squirrel killer
I never really did like his bedroom. It smelled weird. I think it was a combination of jockstrap, musty basement, and the ferret in the next room. What made it worse was the shit poster above the headboard. Cartoons of drunken turds wearing sombreros, corny turds, ghost turds and menacingly dangly turds were cataloged and classified. I promised myself it would not be the room I lost my v-card in. I couldn’t bear the thought of being at eye level with the Anaconda turd. I had higher standards than that.
He popped my cherry in the back of his 1994 Ford Blazer. We drove it to a campsite in the mountains, one he had visited before. We lit a citronella candle and rested it on the console. He was kind enough to fold the seat flat and pad everything with sleeping bags and blankets. Then he took my hand and led me to a tree in the corner of the campsite.
Carving initials in a tree used to be such a cute and romantic thing but something, somewhere, went horribly wrong. The “I” stood a couple feet above my head, about 6 inches from top to bottom. A heart of similar size was carved beneath it. Following in order down the trunk of the tree were the 5 characters of my name, the final at the level of my feet. While I gaped, perplexed, he described the ritualistic animal sacrifice he performed after he had carved it. The squirrel had been decapitated and the blood used to color the heart red. I received a printed photo of the artwork.
Maybe part of me thought it wildly rebellious, a fitting match to the black nail polish I wore and the ballpoint pen masterpiece I had drawn on my arm. Maybe it was because I had put it off for a year and a half. Maybe I felt guilty? He had certainly been patient, and apparently pent up sexual tension can drive a teenage boy to murder innocent forest creatures. I had turned him down numerous times, including prom night, saying that I was not ready. My conscious would tell you that I was ready, but not for him.
But I conceded. I gave up. I let the squirrel killer deflower me. I stared at the ironic full moon, feeling cold and numb, lacking completely the fiery arousal I felt during other dark and secret encounters. I didn’t realize I was crying until my tears were mistaken for those of happiness and I lied in 4 words: “I love you, too.”
***
Four years later and the passing scent of animal reminds me of ferrets and squirrels. I shake off the fog of memory and contemplate the bona fide nut-job that now sits before me. He is sipping coffee and I find myself inadvertently staring at the evil clown tattooed on his arm. Apparently the look on my face is one of horror, because he laughs.
“Yeah, I didn’t think you would like it.”
I only shrug an acknowledgment.
“Where are you headed next?” I ask. This is our first encounter in a year. Six months ago I effectively ended our Colorado to Okinawa relationship, but I had agreed to see him when he came back to town.
“North Carolina. I leave in two days.”
“It would never work out.”
“It would if you wanted it to.”
I don’t respond. I can’t argue with that point.
We say goodbye in our usual screwed-up fashion. We make out in his car. He still slobbers. I still talk to myself when I kiss him, running over to do lists in my head or wishing for a handkerchief to wipe the drool. I pull back abruptly.
“This is not a good idea.” I say.
He pauses for a second and then starts the car, speeding through lights and fishtailing through turns in his new Camaro until he reaches my apartment. He reaches in his glove compartment and pulls out a pen, scribbles his cell number on a piece of paper and shoves it in to my hand.
“If you call this number before I leave in two days, then I know we have a chance. Otherwise, it’s been nice lovin’ ya.” He says through furious eyes.
“Oh!“ He adds with a sudden grin, “And good luck with that short fuck you are dating now.”
Oh. Shit. He has been watching me somewhere... and he is dead right. My short-fuck future is exactly that. What the new lacks in evil clown tattoos he makes up for in sexual dysfunction and the occasional need for help wiping his own ass. I play it off like this assessment is totally wrong and, with as much dignity as I can muster, I exit the vehicle with time enough to catch my balance as he speeds away.
The next morning, in a momentary panic, I try to find the piece of paper with his number on it but some benevolent force of nature has caused it to disappear.
He popped my cherry in the back of his 1994 Ford Blazer. We drove it to a campsite in the mountains, one he had visited before. We lit a citronella candle and rested it on the console. He was kind enough to fold the seat flat and pad everything with sleeping bags and blankets. Then he took my hand and led me to a tree in the corner of the campsite.
Carving initials in a tree used to be such a cute and romantic thing but something, somewhere, went horribly wrong. The “I” stood a couple feet above my head, about 6 inches from top to bottom. A heart of similar size was carved beneath it. Following in order down the trunk of the tree were the 5 characters of my name, the final at the level of my feet. While I gaped, perplexed, he described the ritualistic animal sacrifice he performed after he had carved it. The squirrel had been decapitated and the blood used to color the heart red. I received a printed photo of the artwork.
Maybe part of me thought it wildly rebellious, a fitting match to the black nail polish I wore and the ballpoint pen masterpiece I had drawn on my arm. Maybe it was because I had put it off for a year and a half. Maybe I felt guilty? He had certainly been patient, and apparently pent up sexual tension can drive a teenage boy to murder innocent forest creatures. I had turned him down numerous times, including prom night, saying that I was not ready. My conscious would tell you that I was ready, but not for him.
But I conceded. I gave up. I let the squirrel killer deflower me. I stared at the ironic full moon, feeling cold and numb, lacking completely the fiery arousal I felt during other dark and secret encounters. I didn’t realize I was crying until my tears were mistaken for those of happiness and I lied in 4 words: “I love you, too.”
***
Four years later and the passing scent of animal reminds me of ferrets and squirrels. I shake off the fog of memory and contemplate the bona fide nut-job that now sits before me. He is sipping coffee and I find myself inadvertently staring at the evil clown tattooed on his arm. Apparently the look on my face is one of horror, because he laughs.
“Yeah, I didn’t think you would like it.”
I only shrug an acknowledgment.
“Where are you headed next?” I ask. This is our first encounter in a year. Six months ago I effectively ended our Colorado to Okinawa relationship, but I had agreed to see him when he came back to town.
“North Carolina. I leave in two days.”
“It would never work out.”
“It would if you wanted it to.”
I don’t respond. I can’t argue with that point.
We say goodbye in our usual screwed-up fashion. We make out in his car. He still slobbers. I still talk to myself when I kiss him, running over to do lists in my head or wishing for a handkerchief to wipe the drool. I pull back abruptly.
“This is not a good idea.” I say.
He pauses for a second and then starts the car, speeding through lights and fishtailing through turns in his new Camaro until he reaches my apartment. He reaches in his glove compartment and pulls out a pen, scribbles his cell number on a piece of paper and shoves it in to my hand.
“If you call this number before I leave in two days, then I know we have a chance. Otherwise, it’s been nice lovin’ ya.” He says through furious eyes.
“Oh!“ He adds with a sudden grin, “And good luck with that short fuck you are dating now.”
Oh. Shit. He has been watching me somewhere... and he is dead right. My short-fuck future is exactly that. What the new lacks in evil clown tattoos he makes up for in sexual dysfunction and the occasional need for help wiping his own ass. I play it off like this assessment is totally wrong and, with as much dignity as I can muster, I exit the vehicle with time enough to catch my balance as he speeds away.
The next morning, in a momentary panic, I try to find the piece of paper with his number on it but some benevolent force of nature has caused it to disappear.
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