|
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Celery Stalker
Another voicemail message: "Steve, fucking call me." Click.
What did I do this time? It was early, so I neglected to return the irate message. He finally called later this morning. My misbehavior is catching up to me. People are adding my name to the "Do Not Invite" list because I break glasses, fall over, and insult people. "People are talking. They don't like the person you're becoming. I've already been told you're not welcome at a certain party this weekend." I figure this all began when I quit smoking. I get fidgety and I can't sit still, particularly in social situations. I have to keep in motion. Cigarettes were my punctuation for life, metronomic inhalations separating my colliding moments. Now, since there's no cigarettes, I seek substitutions. I take another sip of my beer. I slam another shot of whiskey. I pop another handful of pills. I dust up another line. This accumulates quickly and I'm retarded within hours. I forget my manners and lose my coordination. Suddenly I'm a gibbering jackass. When the rest of the room is rolling on ecstasy and their eyes are rolling up into their heads, they want to be surrounded with seesawing blissed out murmuring people like themselves. They want techno music and blacklights. They want people sitting. Not standing, pacing, or gesticulating. They do not want to hear me yelling about "truckers tumbling their trailers across my lanes and taxis zooming for my bumper like bees to honey." I ramble and stop mid-sentence and when I realize they're staring at me, I blurt "What?" and make like I'm about to charge. Flinching ensues. So that's why everybody is holding their pens in a stabbing clutch. Because of me. I thought they shared my attitude towards the pets, but they probably like those stinky balls of shit. Nobody else wants to blind the ferret and wrench its teeth out. It's me they expect to fend off with a ball point thrust. More information was shared. The television did not attack me. I knocked over a drink sitting atop it. The fruity concoction spilled into the grill vent while I stood there trying to figure out gravity.The owner cleaned it off. Maybe there were crackling noises emitting from the back of the device. Possibly some wisps of pineapple steam. I remember none of this. So I still have no idea where I got my wound. I can understand why people would hate me for this. I feel contrite but there's nothing I can say to soothe anybody at this point. I didn't even know until this morning. My best guess from the previous voicemail was that I tackled the TV, pummelled it, beat my chest, and howled to celebrate my triumph over technology. My assumption was incorrect. I'm staying home this weekend to do push-ups and read Doctor Who novels. I've been collecting Easter hambones from perplexed and suspicious acquintances all week. I'm going to boil them all on Saturday afternoon. My hearty ham soup is truly a wonder for the palate. After I eat, my burps will be visible. A cloud of green particles and fat globules will hover above my face. I'll watch the surreal display until a gust of secondhand smoke blows in from a roomate's room and disperses my pride. 1:37 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm 
| 11 Comments:
Tinfoil Index Portal
Distinguished LuminariesAn Aquarium Drunkard An American Muslim Journal An American Woman Listens To Music blahblahblahler Commish's Corner Counting Backwards Gin & Tacos The Handsomes HTMLGiant In My Words Izzle Pfaff Latigo Flint The Lung Brothers Monster Sarcasm Rally Pete Lit The Private Intellectual The Reid Option Simpleton Skull Bolt Still Orbiting The Third Toast Warren Ellis What's New With You? Eyes Of ChicagoJamas |
Home
Artwork & Written Word Copyright © Steve Giles 2002-2005 ::theme/gfx: tfooo :: powered by blogger.com ::