i don't know. you know you could creatively respond to it like huh, what does she mean... or huh, what could it mean. does she mean life? singleness? the fall weather? discontent? it could go on and on. you could write a story with that in the title and go from there.
gosh, do i HAVE to think of everything. i'm like totally leaving. M-OUT.
A light mist sprays down from the Heavens, leaving a glistening veneer on the landscape of this tranquil December night. A car drifts past, it's tires hiss across the wet surface. The sound of sleigh bells permeate from inside, and a small tobogganed child presses his face against the rear window (as though he were a suction-cupped Garfield). What the hell is going on? A toboggan in Los Angeles! Boy am I getting wet. I carefully navigate the venturesome sidewalk, already made difficult by tricky climbs and slopes (the work of proud and thirsty tree roots). My hands dig into a paper bag stuffed full of groceries. Why did I say paper? I never say paper. Why would anyone still use paper? I can think of no supportive reasoning behind this decision. Unless I needed it for kindle. Or I had a desire to make a paper bag mask. I suddenly have that desire, but did not at the time of the selection. With plastic you get handles, you get durability, you get peace of mind. Yet here I am, holding my big f u to the rainforest. Sting is going to be pissed. The unwelcoming darkness of my apartment awaits. I find it as I have for many consecutive nights, disheveled and disappointing. Gone is my book case. Gone is my potted plant. Gone in my Sting poster. This is my kingdom, this is my tomb. I empty my groceries into my mini fridge, and toss the bag into the trash. I find a place on the couch, and turn on the tv. I still have the couch (I'm using the term couch loosely, it's really what they call a love seat. A love seat. Then I must love Judge Judy, The Amazing Race, Night Court, and Pringles). The right side of the 'seat' sinks down more, the leather worn. Why do I always sit on the right side? The phone is on the left, my stack of books is on the left, my hamster is on the left. But my mini fridge, it's on the right. How long before the vodka is chilled? how long before she calls back? My neck itches. The Amazing Race, what a show. These people get to travel all over the world. Egypt, Norway, Peru, who knows where they'll turn up. Today, I went to the grocery store and I got on my computer. Does she remember my email address? Where has my energy gone? Is this really my life? Could this possibly be my purpose? To consume but not contribute, to exist but not expand, to live but not feel alive? How could I not have seen this coming? Maybe the mail didn't come today. My arm itches. I could probably start sitting on the left side of the couch (there's that word again), maybe even things out. But that's not my side. It's really stuffy in here. I guess I'll take off my shirt. Why did I get that tattoo? Because she wanted it. That's why I moved out here, why I joined the band, why I learned Russian, why I joined the gym, why I went to the gym, why I listen to Sting, why I floss, why I wait tables, why I no longer have an umbrella. My back itches. I guess I'm allergic to hamsters. I'll never let Svetlana out again.
4 comments:
What the f--- are you talking about?
i don't know.
you know you could creatively respond to it like huh, what does she mean... or huh, what could it mean. does she mean life? singleness? the fall weather? discontent? it could go on and on. you could write a story with that in the title and go from there.
gosh, do i HAVE to think of everything.
i'm like totally leaving.
M-OUT.
Life, Singleness, and the Fall Weather
A light mist sprays down from the Heavens, leaving a glistening veneer on the landscape of this tranquil December night. A car drifts past, it's tires hiss across the wet surface. The sound of sleigh bells permeate from inside, and a small tobogganed child presses his face against the rear window (as though he were a suction-cupped Garfield). What the hell is going on? A toboggan in Los Angeles!
Boy am I getting wet.
I carefully navigate the venturesome sidewalk, already made difficult by tricky climbs and slopes (the work of proud and thirsty tree roots). My hands dig into a paper bag stuffed full of groceries. Why did I say paper? I never say paper. Why would anyone still use paper? I can think of no supportive reasoning behind this decision. Unless I needed it for kindle. Or I had a desire to make a paper bag mask. I suddenly have that desire, but did not at the time of the selection. With plastic you get handles, you get durability, you get peace of mind. Yet here I am, holding my big f u to the rainforest. Sting is going to be pissed.
The unwelcoming darkness of my apartment awaits. I find it as I have for many consecutive nights, disheveled and disappointing. Gone is my book case. Gone is my potted plant. Gone in my Sting poster. This is my kingdom, this is my tomb.
I empty my groceries into my mini fridge, and toss the bag into the trash. I find a place on the couch, and turn on the tv. I still have the couch (I'm using the term couch loosely, it's really what they call a love seat. A love seat. Then I must love Judge Judy, The Amazing Race, Night Court, and Pringles). The right side of the 'seat' sinks down more, the leather worn. Why do I always sit on the right side? The phone is on the left, my stack of books is on the left, my hamster is on the left. But my mini fridge, it's on the right. How long before the vodka is chilled? how long before she calls back?
My neck itches.
The Amazing Race, what a show. These people get to travel all over the world. Egypt, Norway, Peru, who knows where they'll turn up. Today, I went to the grocery store and I got on my computer. Does she remember my email address?
Where has my energy gone? Is this really my life? Could this possibly be my purpose? To consume but not contribute, to exist but not expand, to live but not feel alive? How could I not have seen this coming?
Maybe the mail didn't come today.
My arm itches.
I could probably start sitting on the left side of the couch (there's that word again), maybe even things out. But that's not my side.
It's really stuffy in here. I guess I'll take off my shirt. Why did I get that tattoo? Because she wanted it. That's why I moved out here, why I joined the band, why I learned Russian, why I joined the gym, why I went to the gym, why I listen to Sting, why I floss, why I wait tables, why I no longer have an umbrella.
My back itches.
I guess I'm allergic to hamsters. I'll never let Svetlana out again.
accolades abound to you oh misanthrope of hamsters.
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