Fartbox
Current mood: warm

There's nothing quite like having your manager tell you he thinks you're losing it, then offering a free lunch voucher to appease whatever issue there may be.

It buys a certain freedom to do dumb shit.

I work in customer service which is, if you unlucky cretins haven't yet experienced such an important, globe-shifting career, the worst fucking job possible. It's a default, something to bring in cash for the first couple years, then becomes that comfortable excuse not to move on, cuz you've been there so long. I mean, no kid says in kindergarten that they want to a Customer Service Representative. If they do, call DYFS immediately, cuz it's the under-achieving delusional parents' faults. My particular position involves listening to doctors bitch about why their claims aren't being paid and try my hardest to kiss their ass enough that they don't drop out the network and sue.

I hate my fucking job.

Frustration can turn the most saintly of humans turn into a creature similar to Linda Blair after Jesus fucks her. I've been called bitch, cunt, uneducated ::gasp::, a fucking idiot, and, since most Jersey doctors know we're based in Newark and hire locals, a nigger. Naturally there are variations on that as well.

And we can't say shit. We have to take in it the ass, no lube, no beer. And calmly ask them to please refrain from using such language. We have to suggest this a total of three times (if they haven't hung up on your sweet, respectful, patient ass) before warning them to disconnect the call. Should we be driven to disconnecting the call, we then have to call back and continue providing World Class Customer Service to this gutter trash that just threatened to rape your mother and children while you watch.

Not all calls are so unpleasant, but pulling ninety-odd calls a day while repeating the same, useless shit to smooth things over for this tyrannical corporation that denies children's hospital claims because they deem a seizure for a three month old 'not an emergency', the job kind of wears on you.

We've all, to a degree, muttered how much we hate the job and expressed our own frustration through goofball laughter, retarded (but fucking hilarious) behaviour, and literal breakdowns. One morning a woman leaving the elevator in front of me simply collapsed once we reached the lobby. She began to wail, sob, scream and was completely inconsolable. She hadn't been fired; security would've led her out. If she'd gotten bad news, it had to have been prior to boarding the elevator; cell phones are not permitted on the floor. It was the middle of the day, beginning of the week. Perhaps it was the realization that it was this time and just how much time she'd wasted with this soul-sucking company that made her break down.

The nurse had to come with a wheelchair in order to move her and I haven't seen her since.

Monday I had my own breakdown. I simply put a provider on hold and began to cry. Obviously, I've got more going on than just the job, but it was still awkward for my co-workers around me to see these silent tears falling without known provocation. Awkward enough to send one of my co-workers into a laughing-fit that she simply could not stop. One of those belly-aching ones that make it difficult to breathe. She cried her own tears, as she held up an apologetic hand and shook her head, trying to say she didn't mean it. I didn't take offense. I just cried a little more.

Come Wednesday, I told a provider it wasn't the end of the world. Apparently that's a no-no. She was pissed, yelling, screaming (I could picture her slamming things around her desk as well), called me a cunt a couple of times, and some other nice phrases in that good old espanol (it totally looks gringo without the accent). I simply told her it wasn't the end of the world.

You could hear a pin drop.

A couple of people chuckled nervously, some probably thinking that someone was calling security at that very moment. But they didn't. They simply pulled me from phones and put me on a special project for the last couple of days.

Thursday my manager told me he thinks I'm nuts. I simply smiled at him.

to be continued . . .

Currently listening : 28 Days Later By Various Artists Release date: 2003-06-17

7:24 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

::cue Paul Simon::
Current mood: overstimulated

nothing too straining. hopefully no actual hand-to-hand combat will be necessary but previous experience a plus. successful experience, please. otherwise why the hell would i be hiring you if you’re going to do nothing but get your ass whooped in front of me?

backstory
as some of you that have visited my home know, i have a driveway which is occupied by the two vehicles owned by both tenants of the residence. both of our cars are pretty stationary during the week, but come into frequent use during evenings and weekends. there is a small curb with one tree between the property i rent from and next door; hardly sufficient space to function as a parking spot.

but people try.

i’ll often encourage my guests to block my vehicle in at the end of the driveway, making sure that my neighbours are not deterred or interrupted from the full usage of the driveway i’m sure they pay for, as do i for mine. apparently they either don’t have the same amount of fucking courtesy for me or they don’t know or care.

more often than i’d like, douchebags attempt to park there with an idiotic sense of reason, half-ass "centering" their standard-sized vehicles to a point they decide is fair, usually leaving me having to manuever my rather unyielding two-door camry out of what is now a tight-ass muthafuckin’ space cuz my upstairs’ neighbours are utilizing what the fuck they pay for.

i’ve written concise, almost sympathetic notes and placed them casually underneath plenty of windshield wipers, only to see them crumpled and tossed on the ground the following day. last night i had some fucktard attempt to park there, but instead of calling a tow truck like i should’ve, i wrote another note:

PARK BETTER. I PAY FOR MY SHIT!!!!!!!!!

okay, so i was a little drunk and party-hopping, explaining the not-so articulate language, but you’d think the driver would take it into consideration.

no. instead this asshole knocks on my door around 8.30 this morning and proceeds to threaten me with the police, saying there are no signs restricting parking. i told him i was doing him a favour by not getting his shit towed, resulting in tickets, fines, and costs. this fucking imbecile says that if i wanted to call a tow truck i should have.

fucking really?
seriously?

told him that i know that for next time and have a happy fucking easter. slammed the door in his face as he says, and i quote, "you are a fucking idiot. you have no idea what you’ve just done."

the muthafucka threatened me. it didn’t quite register until he was long gone and i’ve been kind of uneasy since. he’s parked his car there before so i’m thinking he lives in the neighbourhood, which is even more unsettling. as most of you know i have the most vivid imagination this side of recreational drug-use so my paranoid mind is resorting to the worst.

i can’t help but think if a dude had answered the door he wouldn’t have talked all that shit. perhaps he’d been prepared for something in that regard, i.e. strapped, but it didn’t, thank sweet bleeding Christ, come to that.

i still have one of my MagLights of which is currently getting cozy under my body pillow next to me, but i’m going to invest in a metal fucking bat. i don’t do guns. i’d pop off on a menacing six year old and hate myself for the rest of my pathetic life.

what puzzles the hell out of me though is the audacity this waste-of-sperm had in his dignified stance, knocking on my door, threatening me when he was blocking my muthafuckin’ driveway! i should’ve called the cops on his dumb-ass when he said that shit.

i’m notifying my landlord in the morning and warning my neighbours.

fucker’s not getting the best of me. not for much longer, anyway, cuz y’all know i’m shook. muthafuckas are crazy!

so this is my long-winded request for a young man, mid- to late-twenties, medium to large build, at least six foot to sleep on my couch and answer my door. occasionally take out the trash and do manly things at the end of my driveway to scare off anyone perhaps staking my place out to study my habits. i’ll supply a rented BowFlex to position at the end of the drive as part of the aforementioned "manly things" also a convincing beebee gun is a plus. no real ones please. too many kiddies in the neighbourhood. there is little to no pay, just free rent, food, lodging, and cable and the satisfaction of protecting an awesome young lady. you’re definitely chipping in on the power-bill, sitting on your ass all day, watching tv and surfing my internet for free porn. i ain’t Rockerfeller, bitch.

if interested, inquire within.
and not my cooch, ya fuckin’ pervs.

Currently listening : Matthew Ryan Vs. Silver State By Matthew Ryan Release date: 01 April, 2008

8:34 PM - 4 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Solitude
Current mood: used

She cupped her hand to her mouth and blew slowly, the trickling breath carrying an all-too-brief fog of heat to her blue flesh. Her legs were stiff from the cold, but she refused to dance in place. Others did; their stamping and clapping creating a rhythm that only she heard. She'd only begun to get used to listening to the world around her instead of losing herself in yet another randomly organized playlist burned onto a CD. No iPod, Zen, or other mp3 gizmo for her; her soul was too old. She was the type that would resurrect her tape Walkman if it didn't cause such a rukus everytime she'd expose it to "repeat" her favourite song.

It was three in the morning on a weeknight. Dangerous, considering her schedule and overall sense of desperate paranoia to keep things in order. But things were changing, shifting, losing the importance they'd once held onto oh-so dearly in her life. Everything that she wanted to keep, needed to keep was falling away from her. Seemingly endless satin ribbons of red taking away the last of her warm-blooded heart. It was a hell of a way to begin the year; within the first month of a new beginning, she was broken-hearted with an empty womb.

Laelani.

Drunken laughter pulled her from her painful reverie and suddenly she wished quite wholy that she was home, under her blankets, with her woobie close to her face, the warmth of memories and loneliness and darkness engulfing her in a slumber she wished to have never end. The feeling took over with an aggression that frightened her to tears, the wetness blurring and beautifying her vision. She squeezed her eyelids shut so tight a sunburst of pink exploded, her jaws meeting with the same intensity, and she screamed. The true impact was muffled but not enough to be ignored.

A few turned their heads; one girl giggled nervously, she heard, but she ignored them all. She was too weak to be embarrassed so the others felt it necessary to take the shame for her, cowering further down the platform or watching from the safety of the other side of the tracks. A train pulled in just moments later and she found the capacity to walk into an empty car. Even as she sat down home was calling her, safety and security was pulling at her innards, but she refused to listen. Comfort was not an option.

She was lost long enough for the pit of the World Trade Center to greet her as the last and final stop. Begrudgingly, she left behind the option of letting laziness consume her back to Jersey City and she gradually made her way up to street level.

The city was gorgeous at this time. Closed, quiet, but still breathing its deep, anticipant breaths. This is what she needed. And she began to walk.

Currently listening : For Emma, Forever Ago By Bon Iver Release date: 19 February, 2008

4:47 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Throw-Back Moment of Genius
Current mood: cold

so the laudro-mat that i go to is a twenty-four hour joint that i actually hadn't been to in a long time, due to insufficient funds and generous friends that have washing machines and dryers.

but today i went. and not in the middle of the night, like i used to.

of course, it was crowded as all hell; badass kids screaming and slamming their sugar-rushed heads against the forty vending machines demanding more of that candy or ice cream that resembles SpongeBob Square Pants. moms around my age with four kids circling their naked legs because they thought it appropriate to wear a pair of shorts that gave camel-toe a new defining moment or a skirt in which they couldn't take a full stride unless they wanted their lips to fall out.

think about it.

good times.

regardless i couldn't wait to get out of there. as much as i was enjoying the scenery, the four-hour marathon of yet another derivitive of Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers, and the verious peep shows, i was tired and my back was aching for my bed.

then came the porn.

the laundro-mat is located at the very beginning of Union City, which is predominately hispanic, spanish, latin, so i'm used to walking into this place and watching great channels such as Telemundo and Univision and staring dumbly, trying to figure just what the hell those Peruvians on Laura are yelling and beating each other about.

but none of that would prepare me for what came on around nine o'clock.

i casually called my parents to check in while waiting for the last load to dry and just happened to look up to see a couple kissing pretty hardcore on the television. now it's been a while, but i know that type of kissing; that means 'i want to fuck you right here, wherever here may be.'

me thinking of the innocent two and four-year olds that had currently outnumbered anyone over the age of fifteen in that place didn't think it would go as far as the couple commencing to strip each other butt-ass nekkid and go at it, tits and ass out and all.

i must reiterate that i used to go to this place in the middle of the night. and nothing of the sort would be on.

here it is, nine o'clock on the dot and porn is on.

granted it was soft, but still.
the kiddies, people. the fucking kiddies.

so i came up with a brilliant idea.

an after-hours laudro-mat with porn and strippers in the background.

we open after, say, ten every night; close around six in the morning. charge a five dollar cover. bodyguards, of course, for anyone under eighteen trying to sneak in. tips are optional. there would be two areas, one with male strippers, the other, obviously, with women. depending on business and demand, maybe a third for the trannies.

and we'd run specials. instead of fifty-cents off tuesdays, there'll be free lap-dance mondays. cuz mondays are hard enough as it is.

this should fly.

who's in?

10:11 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Cocaine is One Helluva Drug Part 2
Current mood: contemplative

Someone asked me today just what the fuck I was so afraid of in expressing how I feel and somehow more than one nosey-ass muthafucka felt it necessary to catch on to the conversation and add her dirty-ass copper penny o' wisdom. Before I could even think of an answer, one said insecurity, another said scared, and one finally said rejection.

I have an incredible fear of rejection.

Like hardcore, insane evil clowns type of fear.

Clown! Clown! Clown! Clown!

The specific scenarios that play in my head I refuse to share; it's bad enough I'm writing this. But just know that it's crippling to a degree.

Some would attribute it to insecurities. Perhaps. To a certain degree all of us are insecure about something; how we perform in bed, our breath, our sense of humour, how much of a big-ass fuckin' dork we are. And it all trickles down to one question: Do we measure up to them?

Okay, two: Are we good enough for them?

Two point five and probably the most important: Do we deserve this?

After all of the discussions in the office, on the train, and while being stalled on the escalator, on my way out of the Square I ran into Betty. She gave me a warm smile, somewhat sweet, titled her head ever-so-slightly and asked for some change, her gorgeous eyes somewhat apologetic. I smiled back (I can't help it) and shook my head no. Her eyes left mine before I could even move my head to the other side, her expectations met, but her hope not dashed in order to move onto the next potential donor.

She knows my face, just as the others that beg on a daily basis do, but yet they still ask. They still hope that one day that white dude in the Armani suit and Liz Claiborne overcoat will dig deep and pull out that roll of hundreds, feeling quite suddenly benevolent and carefree of what vice they'll get themselves into with his supposedly hard-earned cash. They don't let anyone's judgment or perception get in the way of what they need, no matter how detrimental this need is.

Why is it then that we let simple, unreasonable fears get in the way of what we desire? Okay, so the example of my crackhead buddies was a little extreme, but it carries the same basic principle. When I told Betty no, she didn't mope about it. Shit, she hardly thought about it. She accepted it and moved on.

I wait too long. I let things grow and fester and when I express whatever it is, it's grown into something wild and uncontrollable and way too sensitive for reality. At the slightest bit of negativity I'm crushed and stunted. Unlike Dreadman 4 (I position by height and he, obviously, is the shortest), I don't grow where I can; I continue in this diminutive state until I get sick of feeling sorry for myself, which in turn makes it too late for another opportunity that has more than likely passed me by while I was in my pathetic haze.

So I guess that's what my resolution is this year: Eightballs and poverty.

Kidding.

Maybe.

But I most certainly am taking a stand on what and how I feel. Acting on it when I know the time is right and now waiting for him to say or do something first. Cutting people off that I know are toxic as much as I get bored as shit sometimes.

And most importantly, not stunting myself over something or someone so miniscule and inconsequential.

2008 is going to be the shit, bitches. Lmao.

*not me, ass-wipes. seeing if you're paying attention, bitches.

Currently listening : The Flying Club Cup By Beirut Release date: 09 October, 2007

5:06 PM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Cocaine is One Helluva Drug Part 1
Current mood: contemplative

If there is one thing that makes public transportation worth the aggravation, it's the people you encounter on an everyday basis.

Journal Square is overrun by the homeless, destitute, and bored. You'll run into the same bum twice and he or she will know your face. Make it a habit and they'll know your pay schedule. There are a handful that I know and recognize; the sweet lady that sits by Te Amo and asks politely and rather quietly for some change and as far as I can tell is looking for an honest meal (most of the time), the dreadlock crew that includes a dude with a serious spinal affliction that has permanently stunted his upward growth but has miraculously continued to grow by any means necessary (think twisted tree trunk), and mah dude in the wheelchair that has no issue showing off his gangrene, uneven stumps for legs in the coldest of winter, scaring children and grown white women alike.

There's also my man that has wicked arguments with himself every time I see him. It's notably and almost predictably about the same thing: that stolen crackrock.

As of recent I've noticed a new addition to the bunch. The first time I'd seen her was in a local hangout close to half a year ago. She was clearly strung out and flirting hard with the man she'd walked in with, apparently someone she'd found on her way to wherever she was going to score. Ultimately she'd become too obnoxious for her company, who'd abandoned her for some other lonely, desperate, starved soul (me*) and no longer an entertainment for the rest of the patrons with her excessive dick-grabbing and nipple-carressing. I, sadly, was not a victim.

Anyways, the owner threw her out when she was on stage attempting to sing some badly written hair band ballad as a last stab at seducing that one guy in the crowd to take her home and shoot her up for the night. She was reduced to intermediate squawks and high-pitched pig-squeals, but couldn't muster one decipherable melody or lyric. When she fell asleep at the mic during the bridge, everyone had had enough and she was told rather gently to get the fuck out. She displayed her appreciation by lifting her already too-short skirt and flashing not only her flat, wide and very white asscheeks divided less-than-discreetly by a wine-red thong, but also had the capacity of mind to turn and proceed to . . . fan her genitals at us, the sight quite indescribable.

::pause::

I'm sorry, I just had a flashback and . . .

::pause::

puked a little in my mouth.

::swallow::

::shudder::

Okay. So that brings us to the present. I see her now in the morning on my way to work, a new recruit into the daily harrassment team. Anytime I see her I remember being told that she was Pinky Tony's daughter and that she'd grown up in the area of the local hangout in which I'd first encountered her. That her decline had begun in high school when she got pregnant and didn't want to keep it. Too brash to just tell her parents and get an abortion, she turned to drugs. And hardcore shit too. This chick was not playing when she was looking for the homemade flush. She turned straight to heroine and coke, her preferrence being the ski blackie (i.e. Amie Winehouse's crutch). Succeeded in losing the kid but picked up another dependent in the meantime. She dropped out or was kicked out of high school and became a prostitute and had been living with one man or the other since.

And that she was only 30.

The broad looks around the ripe-old age of 63 and two days. A hard-ass 63 years at that. Her new dependency is now meth, her face resembling something of the moon on a bloodier scale. Most of her teeth are still hanging in there, a shit brown accented with midnight blue at the meeting of her grey gums. Her breath is something I have yet to experience. Physically, the one thing drugs and time hasn't managed to destroy is her eyes. Her eyes are the kind of blue that make anyone envious that they themselves don't possess it, though there is an undeniable sadness behind them that is positively gutwrenching.

Her nature is gentle. She never asks for money aggressively or more than once in a row and is never reduced to pure groveling. When she's high she's hyper as all hell and angry, mostly, it appears, at herself. I've seen her fits on the handful of occasions after I get off of work where she is literally punching the shit out of herself (think Fight Club) and degrading herself to the point of making me feel like taking a dive off the Polaski. Very rarely do I see her with a man anymore.

I've been having some interesting discussions with friends as of late, more specifically Robyn, in regards to matters of the heart. Gay, I know, but it comes up. Probably for the eightieth time in my life I've decided to just say "Fuck it" and go for what I want without paralyzing precaution and not getting so hung up on the idea of rejection.

If you wait too long rejection will become the reality.

I just made that one up. Go ahead. Use it.

Now, you're probably wondering how the hell I went from my morning meth friend Betty (I don't know her name but let's call her Betty. I like Betty) to the subject of feelings, but just stick with me.

Currently listening : The Flying Club Cup By Beirut Release date: 09 October, 2007

5:01 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

::tingles::
Current mood: bouncy

Something about this felt familiar; the players were different, roles slightly altered to fit the moment, but it was all the fucking same.

A heavy, melodramatic sigh.

"Well . . ." he began, something within him too pussyish to finish.

"Yes?" she sang, goading him. A bitter smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, a speck a saliva forming at the meeting of her lips. She wanted to burst. He watched her, blinking once, twice, eyes wide. Then he exploded.

"C'mon, Taria! This is so fucked!" The smirk spread into a full-fledged grin.

"Yes, it is! Isn't it?" She giggled. She couldn't help herself. The stench of his inferiority intoxicated her.

"You're a sick fuck," he growled, true anger registering in his voice. A tear formed but refused to fall. She neared him for the first time, her breath carressing his skin. He sighed in resignation, his need for her to touch him outweighing his fear of her. She threatened his ear with her lips, made the moisture of her mouth audible but did not give him what he'd begged her for.

"You made me this way," she whispered. And she pushed him.

Currently listening : Gulag Orkestar By Beirut Release date: 09 May, 2006

10:53 AM - 2 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Beano Fresco
Current mood: cantankerous

She found herself watching the clock from the time she got in the door. It was never a constant; there was a risk of missing him completely, but it hadn't happened so far. Her knuckles rapped subconsciously against the wood of the kitchen table as she stared at nothing.

"What was that for?" He walked into the kitchen with nothing on but a faded blue towel sitting low on his hips. The sight of his treasure trail turned her stomach a little to the left and she got up quickly from the chair, the scraping of the legs startling her dog into barking hysterically.

"CJ! Calm down!" CJ stopped immediately and licked his chops, anticipant of dinner.Taria watched him, slightly annoyed. He sat on his haunches and panted heavy, stings of drool stretching and threatening to dampen the beige carpet.

"You okay, baby?" Just as she feared, his arms encircled her waist and his lips kissed her neck lightly. "You seem a little tense."

Or repulsed, she thought. She pulled away from him before his fingertips could push her butt back onto his erection. "I'm fine." She avoided his rich dark brown eyes, his flawless butter pecan skin, perfect fucking teeth . . . "I'm going to walk CJ." His body tensed.

"Should I bother to stay?" The timbre of his voice made her pay attention. She looked at him and was nearly taken completely aback by his beauty. The anger registering in his face did nothing but compliment his well defined features. She watched the muscles in jaw flex and his nostrils flare repeatedly before she bothered to speak. It was something to recall for a later time.

"Fuck do you mean by that?" she spat back, the intensity nowhere near what she'd wanted it.

"Never fuckin' mind," he conceded. "Like you say all the time, it ain't that fuckin' serious, right?" Instead of waiting for an answer he stormed past her, their shoulders brushing. Before he slammed her bedroom door shut, he said, "I'll make sure to lock the bottom."

A heat seized her chest as she bit her tongue back from the last word. It would only lead to him dropping the towel and her dropping her panties along with her defenses she'd been building for so long. Tears of frustration blazed a hot path against her cheeks as she angrily leashed the dog. CJ whimpered but sat up readily once she put on her coat and led her out the back door.

She took the usual route through the neighbourhood and past the paper factory, only to circle back around to her block in the opposite direction. His car was gone by that time and momentary annoyance frowned her mouth as she walked past her door.

She'd hardly knocked when the door swung open, the rush of warmth from his apartment foyer greeting her. Instantly she squeezed herself together, as if she had to pee. She didn't smile and niether did he. In the silence, his huge green eyes traced the contours of her face and what her bulky clothing would allow. She squirmed with excitement under his scrutiny.

"You need a shape-up," she said finally. The dark brown freckles on his face danced as he laughed. The sound alone reminded her of burnt amber honey. He shrugged and slid his hand over his low-cut dark brown hair.

"Whatever, man, you gon' do it?" She smiled. "C'mon, it's gettin' cold." CJ led the way.

Currently listening : American Gangster By Various Artists Release date: 06 November, 2007

7:56 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Back to Black
Current mood: sad

She hated that feeling she caught in the back of her throat everytime it was about to happen. The tightened, impenetrable knot her esophagus became when she was weak and stupid. More than ever did she feel so fucking stupid.

Taria sat on the edge of her bed, picking at the shards of mirror still left in her right hand. One fragment was so large she caught a glimpse of her bloodshoot eye as she wriggled it free from between her pointer and middle knuckles. Blood was everywhere. So was the pain. But she was able to ignore them both in her haze induced by some found Percs and the last few swigs of alcohol left in her fridge. All she had left in the fridge.

Another seven years. The random thought made her chuckle, or at least want to. She may have smirked, but she couldn't feel her face. It didn't matter anyway. Throwing the last piece she would bother to find within her flesh, she stood, her feet retracing the glass path she'd made for herself from the bathroom. Plush soles wore the material like slippers, the scraping making her eye tick. She walked past what was the medicine cabinet, shards of twisted metal and wood splinters littering the tub and sink.

All because she didn't like her face.

By the time she reached the kitchen, both her hand and feet had painted her apartment floor red. She liked the new colour.

The television was blaring in the living room, the last room to paint. Before she could reach the threshold, her body could take no more. Her knees gave way and she landed hard on the linoleum, a suspicious crack echoing in her ears. She laughed a little before she fell to her side.

So weak. The tightening again. The salt-water.

So goddamn weak. The sob escaped before her foggy reasoning could stop it. A lazy hand slapped her mouth shut as she rolled onto her back.

Hot salty water.

Fuck. Shame folded her into the fetal position as the tears she'd tried so desperately to stop defied her will, mixing and mingling with her blood, the fluids dancing about her head. All at once, the attempts she'd utilized to kill whatever was growing within her freed themselves and her senses were naked to this world. The hairlines of every nerve in her body was systematically sliced open with the pristine edge of a fresh razor, the cold, rubbing alcohol reality bringing excruciating, searing heat to every molecule of her being.

The black swallowed her whole and quickly, leaving nothing of what was left of her in its wake.

Currently listening : wintersleep By Wintersleep Release date: 06 March, 2007

7:03 PM - 5 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

053007
Current mood: cranky

I hold my breath just before stepping off of the Path. Journal Square, as of late, has smelled like the center of a forgotten Dumpster, its contents completely rotten, nearly completely disintergrated from its original forms. Despite my deft sensory shields of my fingers and self-asphyxiation, the smell manages to choke me still and make my eyes tear. I notice other departing passengers gag dramatically, laughing to themselves at the silent, yet obvious joke allthewhile looking for someone to share it with.

I stay to myself, hitting the escalator in a feigned rush. An old woman whose smell of cod liver oil manages to overpower the garbage heap of Journal Sqaure stops suddenly. My Type A personality threatens to emerge as I'm forced to wait the thirteen seconds more than if I'd walked up. I sigh heavily, weaving my way around her rudely as she shuffles from the top. I hit the turnstile with my right hip today and step onto the second escalator.

Despite the waiting heat, it's cool in the underground, yet open station and I momentarily wish my home was here in this smelly, dirty hole. I entertain the idea of sharing my space with the various crackheads, beggars, police, and unknown species of animals that frequent the space. I change my mind. It's not that I'm in that much of a rush.

Truth is I have to piss.

I practically run up the last stairway and immediately regret doing so. See, I'm fat. According to modern scales and official standards, I'm what you'd call obese. According to media standards, I am grotesquely obese. And fat people do not run, no less run up anything. My obesity is an impressive, if not resilient one. Despite my worsening poverty and tendency to skip a meal or two due to lack of funds, I have lost a mere pound or two here and there. At least something is sticking with me.

I step out from the shade and protection of the various overhangs of the Square and into the relentless sun. Immediately I begin to sweat. Nothing like a fat girl sweating. I want to slow down, maybe stop, but my expanding bladder and weaking sphincter is telling me otherwise. Time is of the essence and not even my extra fifty-two pounds of weight can stop me.

I'm momentarily distracted by a white boy with earpeircings the size of quarters, brilliant red hair, and thousands of freckles on his face. It's beautiful to me, his face. His pale skin becoming a canvas to tiny brown stars and a silver rod or two. And for a flash I see me kissing him with a sense of familiarity and intimacy I can hardly explain. I smile at the thought, but he doesn't see. His slate grey eyes have already left mine, unimpressed, and I am still walking in the opposite direction.

I forget him just as quickly and am nearing the huge intersection of three streets with apprehension. The succession of lights leaves most pedestrians waiting for what can feel like eternity when you have to pee and it's hot as Hades. Naturally I greet the intersection at the beginning of its cycle, leaving me stranded on one side. Suddenly I'm overwhelmed with a sense of disappointment at how monotonous and routine, yet unfamiliar my life has become.

I worry about bills.

I worry about getting to work on time.

I worry about work.

I fucking worry about inane shit I cannot control.

The thought is heavy enough and perplexes me enough to last through most of my walk home, the heat and sweat deemed unimportant. I cross the last main intersection and nearly get struck down by a Jersey City Police van and almost regret not being so.

I'm not suicidal. Just need an excuse to lay flat, my walk home abruptly incomplete and my need to pee relieved by such tragic circumstances. No one would look at the girl who just got hit by a fucking van in a judgemental manner if she were to pee herself. Plus I wouldn't have to worry about work in the morning.

Then again, I'd have to worry about bills once getting out the hospital, since my CharityCare is up in June and I don't get paid for any days I'm not there getting yelled at by various doctors who for some reason think that I, a lowly customer service rep, have the power to change Horizon's policy.

The fantasy takes me home. And immediately my bladder's sphincter knows.

I barely make it to the toilet in time. Save my panties, I am dry for the most part and decide to shower. Suddenly I break out into a sweat.

Christ, it's hot.

Currently reading : Phineas Poe: Kiss Me Judas, Penny Dreadful, Hell's Half Acre By Will Christopher Baer Release date: 09 October, 2005

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