There are days when I sit and ruffle through all the unfinished...things I've started to write. Half of it turns out to be pure crap, but sometimes it makes absolutely no sense.
It's awesome
and I'd like to be able to see inside my head in the past when I thought of it:
1.
I sat down in the HotDogVilleLand© seating area with my Super Chili Cheese Dog™ and medium pop soda cola Super-Megasized™ into an Ultra-Large!™
I had on my way cool race car shirt that was white with the red race car and at the bottom it spelled out the word "RACECAR" except "CAR" was all bakward letters 'cause it's one of those palindromes that's the same spelled forwards and backwards.
Shannon sat to my right. Well, she was behind me, so if I turned to face er she would be on my left...so, um...Shannon sat behind me. I put her there so it wouldn't seem so intentional that I sat near her. In fact, right as I sat down she stood up to leave.
So I stood up as well, to be polite, sliding my chair back to stand, only it hit into her tossing the remains of her King Ketchup Dog™ all over her bright green blouse.
"What the fuck! Why did you do that you nitwit?!"
"Oh, I'm sorry! Oh Dear!" I have a British accent, so imagine that too.
"You nitwit! Fucking nitwit!" She doesn't have one.
"Dear!" I spilled my dog over my shirt, "Fuck, my favourite shirt! And chili doesn't come out! Shit, my racecar!"
"You nitwit!" And she walked off.
2.
The next day I worked up the courage to sit next to her. I cleaned the chili off of my shirt and it all came out. I wore brown slacks instead of green ones today though. But I don't think she'll notice that.
"I'm sorry about your shirt, again."
"You better be," she replied, "I set it on fire."
"I bought you another one. I knew your size and everything."
"Oh? How did you know my size?"
"Well, you're not fat, so I chose 'not fat'. See, the size says 'not fat'."
"Oh, well I am fat, so this one won't fit."
"You're not fat!"
"I weigh 200 lbs."
"Is that fat?"
"Yes."
"Oh, sorry about that. I'll return it."
"No, you'll wear it."
"But it's a girls shirt..."
"So? It's my shirt. Besides butterflies are way less retarded than that stupid race car. Fuck race cars."
"Hey! I love race cars!"
"You're a nitwit. They don't let retards drive race cars."
"Well I'm still not wearing it bitch!"
"Fine then, I'll set it on fire, too!" she enunciated very well, I forgot to mention that, "You can come over if you want. Bring beer and I'll make out with you."
"Yeah." I said.
3.
I showed up at her house at 8 o'clock. In her basement the lights were off and candles were lit. She had a steel garbage can in the middle of the small room.
"This is a nice room. It's all hippie and psychedelic with the candles. It even smells dirty. Authentic!"
"This is my bedroom. I'm allergic to most cleaning products, so I don't use them down here. Or I'll die."
"Oh. Like, how allergic?"
"I once almost died when my mother told me to vacuum the dog hair off the carpet. That was when I lived upstairs. Now I live down here so she can clean. That bitch."
"What about the dog?"
"What dog?" She paused. She grabbed a beer out of my hand that I had opened for me after much effort on the twist top that at first wouldn't twist so I tried prying it off to discover that it was a twist top. "Oh, he choked on his own vomit and died when I was twelve. Fuck sparky."
"Was his name sparky?"
"No. Pluto. But that name sucked."
"Oh. Fancy another beer?" I handed her a second because she had already finished the first.
"Yes."
"Well," I said to her, "I didn't mean to imply it smelled bad. Did I say that? Because I didn't mean to."
"You did. It offended me!"
"I'm sorry then. Golly, I do apologize a lot."
"You do, nitwit."
"I'm sorry."
"Shut up. Prick."
We shared the rest of the beers in silence, pausing only occasionally to comment on bears and the sound of her parents and some third stranger making loud sex-love sounds upstairs to an old Menudo record from when Ricky Martin was still a member. The third mystery person...
Where the heck was I even going with that?
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