"You shaved you're legs."
"Yeah."
"And you're wearing a dress."
"Uh-huh."
"Does that mean you're flirting with boys?"
"Well, uh, typically the estrogen found in females combined with the testosterone found in males creates that sort of action."
"You know that's not appropriate."
"What?"
"It's wrong."
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Beeping
There’s a persistent beeping coming from the oven in my kitchen. Its repetition is driving me into an incredible pit of angst.
Last night I asked a legitimate question and was answered by, “You’re drunk, aren’t you?” I tried to justify my question, minimize its stupidity, but the question was raw and completely intended.
I turned up Animal Collective on my iTunes to an ear-piercing drone, but it’s choking out the persistent beeping.
I heard one, two, three. Louder.
We made plans before he left. There was undeniably something interesting. He left many days ago. I’m now undeniably forgotten.
One more.
“Seriously.”
“Seriously what?”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
I’m constantly fighting this battle with the mundane.
The beeping is competing with my beats.
I hate partiality.
I’m turning the little black knob again. Louder. More sound to drown out sound.
It’s disgusting. It’s absolutely disgusting how long you can spend next to someone and have no idea how their mind could correlate with yours. Sometimes I’m awfully pretentious, typically driven by a fear of rejection. Sometimes getting closer is only a matter of letting vulnerability seep through. This is probably the closest I’ll ever get, and it’s absolutely disgusting.
My music is winning, but pretty soon the beat will fade and I’ll hear that constant reminder of the mundane.
Last night I asked a legitimate question and was answered by, “You’re drunk, aren’t you?” I tried to justify my question, minimize its stupidity, but the question was raw and completely intended.
I turned up Animal Collective on my iTunes to an ear-piercing drone, but it’s choking out the persistent beeping.
I heard one, two, three. Louder.
We made plans before he left. There was undeniably something interesting. He left many days ago. I’m now undeniably forgotten.
One more.
“Seriously.”
“Seriously what?”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
I’m constantly fighting this battle with the mundane.
The beeping is competing with my beats.
I hate partiality.
I’m turning the little black knob again. Louder. More sound to drown out sound.
It’s disgusting. It’s absolutely disgusting how long you can spend next to someone and have no idea how their mind could correlate with yours. Sometimes I’m awfully pretentious, typically driven by a fear of rejection. Sometimes getting closer is only a matter of letting vulnerability seep through. This is probably the closest I’ll ever get, and it’s absolutely disgusting.
My music is winning, but pretty soon the beat will fade and I’ll hear that constant reminder of the mundane.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Airplane: Non-Fiction
Another screaming child on another plane ride going somewhere at some point in time. Right? The insignificance, the unmitigated frivol of the people surrounding you is almost uncanny. The less than satisfying bag of peanuts will soon pass, and you’ll soon trade this pressurized air for something slightly more natural. But honestly, flight attendants don’t get paid to put on a fake smile can play safety charades for nothing. These people, these screaming children bearing, mouth-flapping, insignificant others could be the last people you ever see.
I safely stored my baggage underneath the seat in front of me and released my chair into the abyss known as 94 degrees (as opposed to 92). Too many anxious people with numbers and letters determining their fate filed to their seats. A college kid with his hat tilted frat-boy style, about twelve middle-aged unnatural blondes, and a bowl-cut kid with Sudoku passed by. Fate hadn’t allotted them to be with me.
“John-John, you better shaddup!”
“You don’t have to…yell at him.”
Oh joy. The designated screaming child of the aircraft plopped in front of me, followed by his miffed, but otherwise normal looking parents. The man was balding and had wire-rimmed glasses. His wife was another one of the unnatural blondes and was wearing a lavender sweater.
“Well, someone has to teach him what discipline is,” she squawked.
“He’s four years old! You don’t need to yell at him.”
Cue wailing John-John.
“Oh, shut up!”
“Look, you made him cry!”
I wanted to drop a parenting magazine in their laps and kindly ask them to resolve their marital issues elsewhere. She started cursing profusely, occasionally sputtering the word “discipline”.
“Why don’t you just leave me. You obviously don’t like me.” She drew certain words out and revealed her arms in drastic motions to the rest of the cabin.
Poor John-John. If you weren’t screaming out my eardrums, I’d hand you over to social services right this instant. John-John screamed the word “bathroom” at the top of his lungs about ten times until his father finally picked him up.
“Hurry up. That’s another thing; you always take your sweet time.” She turned around in her chair to curse at her audience and revealed a mouthful of decay.
Amidst John-John and Daddy’s lavatory trip, on wheeled the last guest. He was the new center of attention in all of his cowboy-hat wearing, one-legged glory.
“Kin I have a standin’ ovation,” he asked, followed by the loudest laughter at one’s own joke I’d ever heard. Crazy Rotten Tooth stood up and clapped, along with a single flight attendant.
“You can’t do it ‘cause you only have one leg,” remarked the flight attendant. More obnoxious laughter.
John-John and Daddy returned.
“Sit!”
John-John shrieked. Dear God…
I safely stored my baggage underneath the seat in front of me and released my chair into the abyss known as 94 degrees (as opposed to 92). Too many anxious people with numbers and letters determining their fate filed to their seats. A college kid with his hat tilted frat-boy style, about twelve middle-aged unnatural blondes, and a bowl-cut kid with Sudoku passed by. Fate hadn’t allotted them to be with me.
“John-John, you better shaddup!”
“You don’t have to…yell at him.”
Oh joy. The designated screaming child of the aircraft plopped in front of me, followed by his miffed, but otherwise normal looking parents. The man was balding and had wire-rimmed glasses. His wife was another one of the unnatural blondes and was wearing a lavender sweater.
“Well, someone has to teach him what discipline is,” she squawked.
“He’s four years old! You don’t need to yell at him.”
Cue wailing John-John.
“Oh, shut up!”
“Look, you made him cry!”
I wanted to drop a parenting magazine in their laps and kindly ask them to resolve their marital issues elsewhere. She started cursing profusely, occasionally sputtering the word “discipline”.
“Why don’t you just leave me. You obviously don’t like me.” She drew certain words out and revealed her arms in drastic motions to the rest of the cabin.
Poor John-John. If you weren’t screaming out my eardrums, I’d hand you over to social services right this instant. John-John screamed the word “bathroom” at the top of his lungs about ten times until his father finally picked him up.
“Hurry up. That’s another thing; you always take your sweet time.” She turned around in her chair to curse at her audience and revealed a mouthful of decay.
Amidst John-John and Daddy’s lavatory trip, on wheeled the last guest. He was the new center of attention in all of his cowboy-hat wearing, one-legged glory.
“Kin I have a standin’ ovation,” he asked, followed by the loudest laughter at one’s own joke I’d ever heard. Crazy Rotten Tooth stood up and clapped, along with a single flight attendant.
“You can’t do it ‘cause you only have one leg,” remarked the flight attendant. More obnoxious laughter.
John-John and Daddy returned.
“Sit!”
John-John shrieked. Dear God…
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