Oh, I don't know what is wrong with people.
Seriously.
This past weekend I went to Target to shop, like I do almost every weekend, and I was having a pretty good day up until I decided to enter the men's department. I, of course, immediately went to the clearance racks to see if anything that I liked was on delicious, blessed markdown, but the clearance rack was currently occupied with someone else.
That sucks.
Now, call me "touchy," but I don't like to peruse the racks with someone else. To me, it's akin to the unwritten guy rule of never bothering another man while they're in a bathroom stall: it just ISN'T DONE. I like to give other guys their space, and I expect them to do the same. So, when I saw this guy standing next to the racks, I continued past them and on to another part of the department.
Still, something about this guy caught my eye. For one, he was attractive - mid-thirties, short dark hair, stylish glasses that were for show only, a deep brown turtleneck, and a camel-hair jacket - in short, a bookish hottie. The second thing I noticed was that he was standing next to the END of the rack - he wasn't looking at the clothes. At first I thought he was loitering there talking on the phone, but I didn't see any headset and I didn't hear any talking noises. He just continued to stare at me as I walked by.
Well, after a decent amount of time at the other end of the department, I returned to the clearance racks to find him gone. Good, more clearance goodies for me! But as I started to thread my way through the hangers, my foot suddenly bumped against something on the floor underneath the rack. I kicked it out to see what it was, and found myself staring at a good ole giant jar of Vaseline.
Really.
Call me naive or a prude, but I just DON'T see the want and/or need to do that in Target. I don't even get the appeal! Was it the secret thrill of possibly getting caught? The erotic joy of trying to cram a giant square of Vaseline down your pants? Did the hot guys roaming the department (cough, cough) make you bowlegged with excitement? Did your quivering loins suddenly fill with cream for the great prices?
I mean, don't get me wrong, I love me some Target! But I don't LOVE my Target.
I guess I just don't swing that way.
© 2010 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
1.13.2010
Write On This, Bitch!
My coworker ran into a bit of a kerfuffle a few days ago.
One of her clients called her up and demanded she immediately reorder some of their products for them. The problem was, they couldn't remember exactly WHICH ONE of their many products they wanted her to reorder and, of course, they wanted them NOW NOW NOW. So she asked them to describe it. Y'know, like what does it look like? What size is it? Does it have a logo on it? What color is it? IS IT SQUARE OR ROUND!?
You know, the basics.
She finally gets some info about it being a notepad that was recently reprinted in October. She starts searching in her files. Comes up with nothing. She searches the online database. Nothing. She calls up other people in our department to see if anyone else worked on it. Nothing. Three hours later, she calls the client back, confused and frustrated that there is no record of any notepad reprints for their group going back a full year.
The client is perplexed, certain of their information. They go over the product specs one more time to see if they missed anything...and the client reveals that they were looking for a noteBOOK, not a notePAD. You know, something that is a BOOK, has left and right FACING PAGES, is BOUND, and has a COVER?
But I could see how you might confuse that with a PAD.
My coworker was furious that she had wasted three hours with this idiotic shit. I told her the next time it happened she needed to storm down to the client's office, reach into her underwear, pull out her bloody liner and slap it down on the client's desk and scream,
"That's what a PAD looks like, bitch!"
I guarantee she wouldn't make the same mistake again.
© 2010 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
One of her clients called her up and demanded she immediately reorder some of their products for them. The problem was, they couldn't remember exactly WHICH ONE of their many products they wanted her to reorder and, of course, they wanted them NOW NOW NOW. So she asked them to describe it. Y'know, like what does it look like? What size is it? Does it have a logo on it? What color is it? IS IT SQUARE OR ROUND!?
You know, the basics.
She finally gets some info about it being a notepad that was recently reprinted in October. She starts searching in her files. Comes up with nothing. She searches the online database. Nothing. She calls up other people in our department to see if anyone else worked on it. Nothing. Three hours later, she calls the client back, confused and frustrated that there is no record of any notepad reprints for their group going back a full year.
The client is perplexed, certain of their information. They go over the product specs one more time to see if they missed anything...and the client reveals that they were looking for a noteBOOK, not a notePAD. You know, something that is a BOOK, has left and right FACING PAGES, is BOUND, and has a COVER?
But I could see how you might confuse that with a PAD.
My coworker was furious that she had wasted three hours with this idiotic shit. I told her the next time it happened she needed to storm down to the client's office, reach into her underwear, pull out her bloody liner and slap it down on the client's desk and scream,
"That's what a PAD looks like, bitch!"
I guarantee she wouldn't make the same mistake again.
© 2010 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
1.02.2010
New Year Whore Wit
This year I decided to let the mascots of the site, Smokey the Pole Dancer and Nipples the Stripper, have their say and let them share with you their pearls of wisdom from time to time. You have NO IDEA the amount of esoteric knowledge that is floating around in their heads, from how to get blood stains out of a cashmere sweater (club soda, rubber gloves, a Goodwill dumpster), to what the back seat of my car tastes like (Air Force Pilot), they are ready to explode their useful information all over your brain!
Smokey the Pole Dancer shares this slice-of-life tale:
"I was home for Christmas last week. We sat down to have dessert when Uncle Jabba all of a sudden looks at me and says, 'ANOTHER donut? Jesus.' So I cut him."
Nipples the Stripper shares these words of wisdom:
"If someone calls up and asks if you know what muffin meat is, just say no and hang up."
Thanks, and have a great New Year!
© 2010 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
Smokey the Pole Dancer shares this slice-of-life tale:
"I was home for Christmas last week. We sat down to have dessert when Uncle Jabba all of a sudden looks at me and says, 'ANOTHER donut? Jesus.' So I cut him."
Nipples the Stripper shares these words of wisdom:
"If someone calls up and asks if you know what muffin meat is, just say no and hang up."
Thanks, and have a great New Year!
© 2010 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
12.13.2009
Christmastime and Rudeness
Really? Isn’t everyone just happy and cheery and jolly this time of year? The answer to that question would be a hard and definite NO. People are assholes all the time, and the “holiday season” is no exception. The birthday of Jesus doesn’t make us all saints, I hate to tell you. I wish it was different, I honestly do, but this tidbit of wisdom is hard won, as the following examples will prove.
I was at K-Mart this afternoon, trying to get some decorations for my new faux tree. Shut up, I am not ghetto. Ok, maybe a little. Their shit was forty percent off! Anyway, after I picked out my cheap and trashy garland, I passed the aisle of Christmas candy and stopped to take a look. An old lady was taking up most of the aisle with her small frame and large cart, blocking my access to the goodies. She gave me a look of death, as if to say, “This aisle is MINE,” and continued to shop. This was fine, as I was just looking, but then I spotted something I had been passively keeping an eye out for since the start of the season: a box of those old-fashioned Life Savers Christmas books! I had mentioned them to my nephew a while ago and he said he wanted one but I couldn’t seem to find them anywhere. Eureka! Problem solved! I tried to reach over the old lady’s cart to get one but, since I am criminally short and the books were on the top shelf, couldn’t reach it.
I frowned but politely turned to the old lady next to me, who had pointedly ignored me until now, and said, “Excuse me.”
She looked at me through slit eyes and then moved her cart a micro-inch in one direction and said, completely unconvincingly, “Oh, sorry.”
Ok, wow.
I felt like saying, “Just because you’re old doesn’t give you license to be a bitch,” but I refrained. There was just enough room for me to scoot by the end of her cart and reach the candy books. I grabbed one and looked at it, disappointed it was so much thinner than the ones I remembered from when I was a kid. I pondered whether I should get one for all of my sister’s kids, or just the one I talked to about the books. As I stood there and thought, the old lady apparently decided my time was up and started to shove her cart into my right thigh and push me rudely down the aisle. I was shocked into motion and barely snatched two more packs before they were yanked out of my reach. The old lady didn’t even look at me while she aggressively gouged my side with her death-cart and escorted me away from all of her “preciousssssssss.” I gave up and left.
Jesus, what a Fuck Crone.
My second tale takes place at the esteemed establishment called, “Toys ‘R Us.” Yeah, I agree, to enter one of these stores this time of year IS like signing your own death warrant, but still. There’s no need to cause me to stroke out from anger, people.
This takes place in Georgia, so that partially explains why I was already in such a bad mood and filled to the brim with a heady mix of homicidal rage and Northern Stabbery. It’s not that the people of the South aren’t nice, it’s just that, from a Northerner’s perspective, the people down here just move SO. DAMN. FUCKING. SLOW. Whether it’s driving or walking (there are no other forms of transportation here, besides Wal-Mart’s fat-filled lazy-scooter) Southern people can’t do anything above the speed of a rotting corpse’s jog.
And it. Fucking. Drives. Me. NUTS.
By the time I whipped into the Lego aisle, I was already topping out on my rage-o-meter. I just wanted to see if they had the set I was looking for, which was, of course, right behind this nice young couple and their cart, who were currently blocking the entire aisle while arguing over what to get for one of their hell-spawn relatives. I didn’t care if they were talking about the firmness of Brad Pitt’s ab muscles or the numerous ways they could save the Pope’s life from assassins, I just needed them to get the fuck out of my way. I stopped in middle of the aisle and indicated with my expression and body language that I wanted to look at what was behind them. They could clearly see me, but decided to ignore me. I waited. They continued to ignore me.
My rage-o-meter broke with a sudden, “Twang.”
I drew in a breath and, with the utmost willpower, conjured up the most vile voice from the depths of screaming hell, corrosively dripping with equal parts pure derision and utmost contempt for the foulness of their souls, and said calmly, “Excuse me.”
POW. The lady reacted like I had bitch-slapped her freshly-born child, and then hung her head in rightful shame while moving her cart quickly and saying, “Oh. Excuse me.” The guy didn’t even react, as he was too busy puzzling over the contents of the Lego box he held and drooling.
I ignored her apology and let her stew in her own embarrassment while I walked past her to get to the Lego. Flustered, she decided to leave, only to be blocked by my body as I perused the shelves. Then she had the nerve to let out a sigh at me.
All I could think was, “REALLY? Aren’t you the one who was blocking the WHOLE AISLE not two seconds ago? All you need to do is drive your cart AROUND me, bitch! You know what I’m going to do now, fuck face? I’m going to let out a violent, juicy, ass-ripping Karma Fart right in your face! That’s right, take a nice big whiff of that ripe one and drink it in through your pore-filled crater face. Savor the pungent aroma of an instant Karma kick-in-the-cunt! Devour the delicious taste of bloody anal lining when it floods your throat after Fate karate-chops your jagged ass opening! And next time, you might stop chewing on a rancid cow’s creamy member long enough to notice the people around you and behave with a lick of COMMON COURTESY!”
I said none of this, of course, since I am a gentleman and a scholar. I just turned to her and arched one eyebrow at her crass display. She left, her dundering husband in sheepish tow.
And that’s a collection of my joyous Christmas stories for this delightful holiday season. Please make sure your yuletide’s GAY and have a Merry Christmas, everyone!
© 2009 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
I was at K-Mart this afternoon, trying to get some decorations for my new faux tree. Shut up, I am not ghetto. Ok, maybe a little. Their shit was forty percent off! Anyway, after I picked out my cheap and trashy garland, I passed the aisle of Christmas candy and stopped to take a look. An old lady was taking up most of the aisle with her small frame and large cart, blocking my access to the goodies. She gave me a look of death, as if to say, “This aisle is MINE,” and continued to shop. This was fine, as I was just looking, but then I spotted something I had been passively keeping an eye out for since the start of the season: a box of those old-fashioned Life Savers Christmas books! I had mentioned them to my nephew a while ago and he said he wanted one but I couldn’t seem to find them anywhere. Eureka! Problem solved! I tried to reach over the old lady’s cart to get one but, since I am criminally short and the books were on the top shelf, couldn’t reach it.
I frowned but politely turned to the old lady next to me, who had pointedly ignored me until now, and said, “Excuse me.”
She looked at me through slit eyes and then moved her cart a micro-inch in one direction and said, completely unconvincingly, “Oh, sorry.”
Ok, wow.
I felt like saying, “Just because you’re old doesn’t give you license to be a bitch,” but I refrained. There was just enough room for me to scoot by the end of her cart and reach the candy books. I grabbed one and looked at it, disappointed it was so much thinner than the ones I remembered from when I was a kid. I pondered whether I should get one for all of my sister’s kids, or just the one I talked to about the books. As I stood there and thought, the old lady apparently decided my time was up and started to shove her cart into my right thigh and push me rudely down the aisle. I was shocked into motion and barely snatched two more packs before they were yanked out of my reach. The old lady didn’t even look at me while she aggressively gouged my side with her death-cart and escorted me away from all of her “preciousssssssss.” I gave up and left.
Jesus, what a Fuck Crone.
My second tale takes place at the esteemed establishment called, “Toys ‘R Us.” Yeah, I agree, to enter one of these stores this time of year IS like signing your own death warrant, but still. There’s no need to cause me to stroke out from anger, people.
This takes place in Georgia, so that partially explains why I was already in such a bad mood and filled to the brim with a heady mix of homicidal rage and Northern Stabbery. It’s not that the people of the South aren’t nice, it’s just that, from a Northerner’s perspective, the people down here just move SO. DAMN. FUCKING. SLOW. Whether it’s driving or walking (there are no other forms of transportation here, besides Wal-Mart’s fat-filled lazy-scooter) Southern people can’t do anything above the speed of a rotting corpse’s jog.
And it. Fucking. Drives. Me. NUTS.
By the time I whipped into the Lego aisle, I was already topping out on my rage-o-meter. I just wanted to see if they had the set I was looking for, which was, of course, right behind this nice young couple and their cart, who were currently blocking the entire aisle while arguing over what to get for one of their hell-spawn relatives. I didn’t care if they were talking about the firmness of Brad Pitt’s ab muscles or the numerous ways they could save the Pope’s life from assassins, I just needed them to get the fuck out of my way. I stopped in middle of the aisle and indicated with my expression and body language that I wanted to look at what was behind them. They could clearly see me, but decided to ignore me. I waited. They continued to ignore me.
My rage-o-meter broke with a sudden, “Twang.”
I drew in a breath and, with the utmost willpower, conjured up the most vile voice from the depths of screaming hell, corrosively dripping with equal parts pure derision and utmost contempt for the foulness of their souls, and said calmly, “Excuse me.”
POW. The lady reacted like I had bitch-slapped her freshly-born child, and then hung her head in rightful shame while moving her cart quickly and saying, “Oh. Excuse me.” The guy didn’t even react, as he was too busy puzzling over the contents of the Lego box he held and drooling.
I ignored her apology and let her stew in her own embarrassment while I walked past her to get to the Lego. Flustered, she decided to leave, only to be blocked by my body as I perused the shelves. Then she had the nerve to let out a sigh at me.
All I could think was, “REALLY? Aren’t you the one who was blocking the WHOLE AISLE not two seconds ago? All you need to do is drive your cart AROUND me, bitch! You know what I’m going to do now, fuck face? I’m going to let out a violent, juicy, ass-ripping Karma Fart right in your face! That’s right, take a nice big whiff of that ripe one and drink it in through your pore-filled crater face. Savor the pungent aroma of an instant Karma kick-in-the-cunt! Devour the delicious taste of bloody anal lining when it floods your throat after Fate karate-chops your jagged ass opening! And next time, you might stop chewing on a rancid cow’s creamy member long enough to notice the people around you and behave with a lick of COMMON COURTESY!”
I said none of this, of course, since I am a gentleman and a scholar. I just turned to her and arched one eyebrow at her crass display. She left, her dundering husband in sheepish tow.
And that’s a collection of my joyous Christmas stories for this delightful holiday season. Please make sure your yuletide’s GAY and have a Merry Christmas, everyone!
© 2009 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
3.17.2009
WhatTheFuckreview: Friday the 13th
It sucked rotting ostrich teats.
Seriously.
But wait, now that I think about it, actually watching live ostrich teats ROTTING ON SCREEN would've been a better use of my time (and made a better movie). Or, even better, cutting off my OWN TEATS and filleting them in a nice olive sauce with rum-filled raisins and then silently chewing them while shaking and crying WOULD'VE MADE ME A MUCH HAPPIER MAN.
Really.
There is nothing else left to say.
© 2009 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
Seriously.
But wait, now that I think about it, actually watching live ostrich teats ROTTING ON SCREEN would've been a better use of my time (and made a better movie). Or, even better, cutting off my OWN TEATS and filleting them in a nice olive sauce with rum-filled raisins and then silently chewing them while shaking and crying WOULD'VE MADE ME A MUCH HAPPIER MAN.
Really.
There is nothing else left to say.
© 2009 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
1.08.2009
I'm Even Better Than The Real Thing
Y'know when you have one of those days...where nothing goes right...AT ALL...and you wish, for just one minute...that you knew some sort of Knife-Fu...and you could go all "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Bloody-Fucking-Lobotomy" on someone's ass?
Yeah, that was today.
I mean, not EVERYTHING was horrible, but it was pretty fucking bad. Even my therapy session, which usually puts me in a much better mood, just made me sad and anxious and wanting to hit someone.
That's not good.
Also, I got to write a REALLY vicious e-mail at work today that eviscerated this company for fucking up on one of my orders and I usually enjoy writing those type of e-mails (heck, I am KNOWN for those type of e-mails) and even THAT didn't make me feel any better. I must be coming down with small-pox or something.
Or maybe I'm just depressed. *sigh* Again.
So, instead of going to the gym today after work (like I promised myself I would), I headed home and stopped off at Burger King on the way and got a giant Whopper value meal. I'm sure eating THAT will put me in a better mood.
(The answer is: NOT)
But the most interesting thing happened to me at the drive-thru. I pulled up to the window to pay and this young guy was at the cash register, just smiling away. Of course, I immediately hated him. So I rolled down the window to pay and the guy suddenly jumps back and yells at me, "Wow! Did anyone ever tell you you look just like that guy from You Tube?"
I'm immediately confused. I'm trying to come up with a name but I'm drawing a blank -- there are SO many You Tube people! Does he mean that guy who sings, "Chocolate Rain?" Or the Star Wars Kid? I can't think, but none of them sound flattering. Could it be that I just got dissed by the Burger King drive-thru guy? Could my day GET any worse!?
I just smile back at the guy, pass him my money, and say, "No, I've never had anyone say that."
He just keeps on grinning and points at me, "No, you do. You look like him! I can't think of his name..."
I'm still at a loss, and getting more insulted by the minute. "Which You Tube guy were you thinking of?"
He laughs back at me and says, "NO! No! The guy from U2! The BAND! What's his name, the lead singer."
I'm kinda shocked. No, wait, I'm IN SHOCK.
"You mean Bono?" I ask, disbelieving every surreal word coming out of my mouth.
"Yeah, that's him! You look just like him! Do you get that all the time?"
I practically do a spit take in his face.
"NO, NO, I've never had anyone say that. That would be nice." I understate, not believing for one second I look 1/1000th as good as Bono does, even on his worst day.
He comes back to the window, handing me my change, "Dude, you do, seriously. You pulled up to the window and I was like, 'WOW.' Especially from the side you look exactly like him. You must get that all the time."
Now I'm just scrambling for words, any words. "Yeah, I wish. No, I've never gotten that before but that would be great. I'd love it."
Understatement. Of. The. FUCKING. Century.
Drive-thru guy just waves me off, "Cool, dude. Have a nice day!"
I smile back at him and say, "Thanks, you too!"
and then I ponder this incident alllllll the way home.
?????
??????????????
?
And the only conclusion I've reached about this whole thing?
Well, I WAS wearing sunglasses at the time...so that must be it.
Or I must be one smokin' hot stud.
© 2009 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
Yeah, that was today.
I mean, not EVERYTHING was horrible, but it was pretty fucking bad. Even my therapy session, which usually puts me in a much better mood, just made me sad and anxious and wanting to hit someone.
That's not good.
Also, I got to write a REALLY vicious e-mail at work today that eviscerated this company for fucking up on one of my orders and I usually enjoy writing those type of e-mails (heck, I am KNOWN for those type of e-mails) and even THAT didn't make me feel any better. I must be coming down with small-pox or something.
Or maybe I'm just depressed. *sigh* Again.
So, instead of going to the gym today after work (like I promised myself I would), I headed home and stopped off at Burger King on the way and got a giant Whopper value meal. I'm sure eating THAT will put me in a better mood.
(The answer is: NOT)
But the most interesting thing happened to me at the drive-thru. I pulled up to the window to pay and this young guy was at the cash register, just smiling away. Of course, I immediately hated him. So I rolled down the window to pay and the guy suddenly jumps back and yells at me, "Wow! Did anyone ever tell you you look just like that guy from You Tube?"
I'm immediately confused. I'm trying to come up with a name but I'm drawing a blank -- there are SO many You Tube people! Does he mean that guy who sings, "Chocolate Rain?" Or the Star Wars Kid? I can't think, but none of them sound flattering. Could it be that I just got dissed by the Burger King drive-thru guy? Could my day GET any worse!?
I just smile back at the guy, pass him my money, and say, "No, I've never had anyone say that."
He just keeps on grinning and points at me, "No, you do. You look like him! I can't think of his name..."
I'm still at a loss, and getting more insulted by the minute. "Which You Tube guy were you thinking of?"
He laughs back at me and says, "NO! No! The guy from U2! The BAND! What's his name, the lead singer."
I'm kinda shocked. No, wait, I'm IN SHOCK.
"You mean Bono?" I ask, disbelieving every surreal word coming out of my mouth.
"Yeah, that's him! You look just like him! Do you get that all the time?"
I practically do a spit take in his face.
"NO, NO, I've never had anyone say that. That would be nice." I understate, not believing for one second I look 1/1000th as good as Bono does, even on his worst day.
He comes back to the window, handing me my change, "Dude, you do, seriously. You pulled up to the window and I was like, 'WOW.' Especially from the side you look exactly like him. You must get that all the time."
Now I'm just scrambling for words, any words. "Yeah, I wish. No, I've never gotten that before but that would be great. I'd love it."
Understatement. Of. The. FUCKING. Century.
Drive-thru guy just waves me off, "Cool, dude. Have a nice day!"
I smile back at him and say, "Thanks, you too!"
and then I ponder this incident alllllll the way home.
?????
??????????????
?
And the only conclusion I've reached about this whole thing?
Well, I WAS wearing sunglasses at the time...so that must be it.
Or I must be one smokin' hot stud.
© 2009 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
12.12.2008
Short(ly) Fired Stories
I'm a writer.
Yeah, you'd never tell from this blog, but I've been writing for most of my life. I'm not the best writer in the world, I'll admit that, and I've never claimed to be. I either write what I know or I write what I like. That's it. Some people say I don't "stretch" myself enough, but I'd look like a fool writing about anything else. (I am considering a book for next year that may contradict this statement, but that story is for another post.)
Since some people in my life know I am a writer, they sometimes ask me to become involved in writerly things. Things that I inevitably end up saying "no" to. Not because I don't want to help, it's just that writing is a passion for me, an enjoyable creative escape that I don't want to spoil by making it into -- work. If I don't feel something for what I am writing about (pick your emotion - it doesn't matter what motivates you, as long as you feel it) then the writing escape is completely soured. At another point in my life, I was an artist and used to enjoy art in the same way as writing, until my escape became my work and now I haven't drawn anything for myself or anybody else in many, many years.
So, seriously, fuck that shit.
But one of my relatives decided to try and bother me again recently with a project he was working on - a collection of humorous short stories about people and their teen-age years. It was bad enough I didn't want to contribute anything to his collection (i.e. fuck that shit. Remember that? Hello, is this on?) but like I seriously wanted to revisit the fresh Hell dimension of my youth. Seriously. And, as a "bonus," this relative knew how bad my childhood was and he still asked!
He could go fuck himself sideways through a meat-cleaver waterfall.
Which would have been the end of it (in a satisfyingly gruesome way, I might add), BUT he wouldn't take no for an answer. OH, NO, THAT WOULD BE TOO EASY! He just kept asking, which was doubly weird because he was also a writer and had plenty of material for the book. So why pester me? Nobody knows who I am! My writing style is completely different from the rest of the book! His stories ideas were (to me) painfully unfunny!
I finally got rid of him this past week with a strongly worded e-mail, but the whole situation got me thinking. What if I HAD written something? Something that was in MY style, with MY sense of humor. Would he really be so happy with me then? Let's see...
My Childhood
Me and Ricky ran the last few blocks, our breath escaping in huge gasps from our thin chests. The cold night air burned in our lungs as we looked back through the thin layer of fog hovering over the streets we had just escaped through. There was no sign of pursuit. I smiled at Ricky, who smiled back while wiping a smear of blood off his cheek. Ricky counted out half of the cash in his front pocket and gave it to me, his hands still shaking. We talked quietly about what happened and, after a quick hug and some sloppy tongue action, Ricky quietly disappeared into an alleyway further down the block. He said his Mom was waiting for him at home and that he was late. I knew it was a lie, that his Mom beat him brutally with broken liquor bottles and ribbons of razor wire every night, but let him go anyway. I had someplace to be as well, so I didn't care.
Later, I met up with Sinky and Front Flap Pete at our usual stomping grounds. Sinky had just blown sixteen sailors in an abandoned car on fifty-fourth street so he was flush with cash. He even bought me a Diet Coke and some Chapstick from the local Duane Reed. The tube said it had a new "plumping action" which was nice and might come in handy when Ron stopped by later. Pete was taken away by some leather guy in a car right after that and we ended up never seeing him alive again. Well, except for his foot. And a chunk of his thigh. I don't know if that counts. Oh, and later I found a part of his ear in a dumpster, which I dried and made into a decorative fob for my keys. I miss Pete.
Sinky sank into a depression after Pete died and was never the same. He eventually joined a religious cult and disappeared for almost a year. We heard that he had moved to California but that one day he snapped and went on a rampage, castrating eleven men before being trampled to death by a rhino freed from the local zoo because of the fires. I ended up moving to Long Island and lost contact with most of my old friends, which was sad. I still compulsively blew random men in my spare time, just not for cash anymore. That had to stop once my left arm was amputated. My foster parents were very strict about that, at least until they were killed. But the sores never did seem to dry up completely. It was soon after that I bought my first computer and discovered hacking. The guards keep saying that my parole should go through soon. High School was so much fun, I wish I could've stayed a teenager forever.
The End.
© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
Yeah, you'd never tell from this blog, but I've been writing for most of my life. I'm not the best writer in the world, I'll admit that, and I've never claimed to be. I either write what I know or I write what I like. That's it. Some people say I don't "stretch" myself enough, but I'd look like a fool writing about anything else. (I am considering a book for next year that may contradict this statement, but that story is for another post.)
Since some people in my life know I am a writer, they sometimes ask me to become involved in writerly things. Things that I inevitably end up saying "no" to. Not because I don't want to help, it's just that writing is a passion for me, an enjoyable creative escape that I don't want to spoil by making it into -- work. If I don't feel something for what I am writing about (pick your emotion - it doesn't matter what motivates you, as long as you feel it) then the writing escape is completely soured. At another point in my life, I was an artist and used to enjoy art in the same way as writing, until my escape became my work and now I haven't drawn anything for myself or anybody else in many, many years.
So, seriously, fuck that shit.
But one of my relatives decided to try and bother me again recently with a project he was working on - a collection of humorous short stories about people and their teen-age years. It was bad enough I didn't want to contribute anything to his collection (i.e. fuck that shit. Remember that? Hello, is this on?) but like I seriously wanted to revisit the fresh Hell dimension of my youth. Seriously. And, as a "bonus," this relative knew how bad my childhood was and he still asked!
He could go fuck himself sideways through a meat-cleaver waterfall.
Which would have been the end of it (in a satisfyingly gruesome way, I might add), BUT he wouldn't take no for an answer. OH, NO, THAT WOULD BE TOO EASY! He just kept asking, which was doubly weird because he was also a writer and had plenty of material for the book. So why pester me? Nobody knows who I am! My writing style is completely different from the rest of the book! His stories ideas were (to me) painfully unfunny!
I finally got rid of him this past week with a strongly worded e-mail, but the whole situation got me thinking. What if I HAD written something? Something that was in MY style, with MY sense of humor. Would he really be so happy with me then? Let's see...
My Childhood
Me and Ricky ran the last few blocks, our breath escaping in huge gasps from our thin chests. The cold night air burned in our lungs as we looked back through the thin layer of fog hovering over the streets we had just escaped through. There was no sign of pursuit. I smiled at Ricky, who smiled back while wiping a smear of blood off his cheek. Ricky counted out half of the cash in his front pocket and gave it to me, his hands still shaking. We talked quietly about what happened and, after a quick hug and some sloppy tongue action, Ricky quietly disappeared into an alleyway further down the block. He said his Mom was waiting for him at home and that he was late. I knew it was a lie, that his Mom beat him brutally with broken liquor bottles and ribbons of razor wire every night, but let him go anyway. I had someplace to be as well, so I didn't care.
Later, I met up with Sinky and Front Flap Pete at our usual stomping grounds. Sinky had just blown sixteen sailors in an abandoned car on fifty-fourth street so he was flush with cash. He even bought me a Diet Coke and some Chapstick from the local Duane Reed. The tube said it had a new "plumping action" which was nice and might come in handy when Ron stopped by later. Pete was taken away by some leather guy in a car right after that and we ended up never seeing him alive again. Well, except for his foot. And a chunk of his thigh. I don't know if that counts. Oh, and later I found a part of his ear in a dumpster, which I dried and made into a decorative fob for my keys. I miss Pete.
Sinky sank into a depression after Pete died and was never the same. He eventually joined a religious cult and disappeared for almost a year. We heard that he had moved to California but that one day he snapped and went on a rampage, castrating eleven men before being trampled to death by a rhino freed from the local zoo because of the fires. I ended up moving to Long Island and lost contact with most of my old friends, which was sad. I still compulsively blew random men in my spare time, just not for cash anymore. That had to stop once my left arm was amputated. My foster parents were very strict about that, at least until they were killed. But the sores never did seem to dry up completely. It was soon after that I bought my first computer and discovered hacking. The guards keep saying that my parole should go through soon. High School was so much fun, I wish I could've stayed a teenager forever.
The End.
© 2008 All Rights Reserved. The author of this blog (pseudonym “Cardboard Whore”) reserves all rights to the content of this post. No part of this post may be reproduced in any way/format without written permission from the author.
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