Monday, November 27, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
1:30 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
Saturday, November 25, 2006
It's been two weeks. The unfinished burritos and dried out linguini have decomposed from hardened encrustations into wet, glistening stews of sentient rot. The sinks are unapproachable. I've relegated myself to purchasing canned soda. Water is stricken from my diet by proxy of unavailability.
The fruit flies are still breeding. Their population grows exponentially every day. My kitchen is overrun, enswarmed. I have to clench my mouth shut and pinch my nose just to approach the fridge. The alternative is to eat or inhale several of the insects, even during a brief five second visit to the kitchen.
I can't take this anymore. Tomorrow, I'll deal with it. Right now, I'm going to my sanctuary, my bedroom. Oh God. There's a few in here, too. They must've found the ventilation system. Fuck.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
I have two choices. Blame somebody and start a fight, or correct this problem. There's nobody else home right now for me to blame. Yelling won't fix this anyways. It was so long ago that the kitchen was serviceable that I can't remember who made these dishes. I work so much that I rarely eat at home anymore. I drink here though, and some of these open bottles are certainly my responsibility. The soup pan was probably me. It looks ancient. The linguini? The burritos? The hot peppers? Somebody else. I'm not going to blame anyone. I'm not going to get angry. I'm going to get chemicals.
I'm back from the grocery store. I have ammonia, surgical masks, latex gloves, garbage bags, fly tape, paper plates, paper towels, disinfectant spray, and diet grapefruit soda. I'm ready for this. I hope we have a lot of empty garbage cans outside.
The garbage cans are full, and I haven't even touched the kitchen yet. I removed seven bags of filthy garbage that lay piled by the fire escape door for a month. The fruit flies were having a party here until I moved their breeding trenches. Still, they swarm. Fumes might help. Yeah. I'll splash ammonia around and choke the little fuckers.
There's even more fruit flies in the kitchen. Hundreds. Thousands? I'm not doing the dishes in this. Even with my mask, they'll still get into my eyes. Under my eyelids. On my tear ducts. Maybe even in my ear canals. No. Not a fucking chance. Extreme measures must be taken. My roommates may be furious when they discover what I've done.
I don't care. They had their chances. They've had hours and days and weeks. I've been working two jobs this whole time, barely home, and even then just to sleep. They left things this way. If they hate my solution, tough shit. Their chances have expired, just like this food.
Pots and pans. Plates and forks. Cheese graters, Foreman grills, teacups, and spatulas. Into the garbage bags. Crash bang boom, porcelain and china, glass and silver. Goodbye. My divine black plastic (with easy cinching action!) swallows them all up.
Down I go, from the fire escape, to the sidewalk, and finally, to the overfilled trash bins and dumpsters. I wedge the bags wherever I can, and after that, I stack them. Bags and bags. Most of the swarm follows.
The kitchen is empty but for the shallow grey green water in the sinks and the slime on the countertops. I'm protected by my latex hand condoms, so I reach into the sinks and probe out the muck preventing the water from draining. I finger out the unidentifiable obstructions. Wiggle wiggle squidge smush. It's time for sanitizers and paper towels.
The kitchen is almost beautiful. The last of the flies, the stubborn holdouts, are perched on the cabinet doors, waiting for a new nest to appear in the sinks below. I spray them. They fall. A few escape, which is unfortunate. They'll die soon. Fruit flies primarly breed in ripe fruit and fermenting liquid. Those no longer exist here. However, research has informed me that any film of moisture can be used for egg laying. Even water! I coat the clean sinks with strong chemicals. A bold deterrent! Try to fuck in that! Lay your eggs in my caustic deathpuddles, insectile vermin!
I'm walking around the ballroom, the living room, and the kitchen, seeking hot spots where the flies can hide and multiply. The nauseating little fuckers must be stamped out. I must eradicate them. They're still in the air, so my job is not yet done. Are they just lost, now that I've razed their homes? Will they soon die with no sustenance?
Aha! There! They're converging on one place, their evil little insect fallout shelter. The ferret cage. The ferret has been dead for six months. The cage has stood there in the corner, all this time, full of feces. The cats began shitting in there even when the ferret was still alive, usually when the litterbox overflowed. For six months, a blend of animal shit has been molding in that cage. Finally, my emotions flare. I open the fire escape door, pick up the rather large cage by the legs, and throw it over the rail. It crashes to the concrete, where it explodes. Wood chips, ferret toys, two types of animal shit, a water bottle, shredded newspaper, and a blanket or two scatter with the impact.
I leave it there.
Monday, November 27th, 2006
I just got to work. My phone rang like crazy during the drive here. A roommate. I rarely answer while I'm driving. Too distracting, especially in traffic. He's stopped calling. It's the roommate who owned most of the dishes and the ferret cage. I wonder what he's upset about?
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Side Order #3
Monday, November 13, 2006
“Hey, nice tits!”
Two drunken louts, buffalo sauce smeared across theirs chins and encrusted beneath their fingernails, decided last night that greasy chicken and greasy pussy were the top items on their grocery lists.
Undeterred by the rebuff, they conversed between themselves, loudly.
“I could pull either one of those. Betcha five bucks I rail the blonde tonight. Easy pussy.”
The woman in question had won a contest. She won free food, free beer, a limo ride, and access to recliners smack dab in the middle of the bar for her and four friends. These recliners left her seated lower than the bar tables. Combine the blonde’s low cut top with her sunken elevation, and she’d inadvertently encouraged the nearby male patrons to stare right down her blouse. Unfortunately for her, the rudest, dumbest, most classless turds in the joint had landed seats right next to hers.
She complained. One of our managers, a former college football player, hulked his way over to allay her complaints.
“Those two assholes keep saying nasty shit to me. Calling me a slut, shit like that.”
“I apologize for our guests’ rude behavior. I’ll take care of it.”
The manager turned around to address the slobs.
“Guys. I realize those ladies are attractive. Okay? But please, please keep the pickup lines and comments to yourselves. They’re not interested in you and now they’ve complained. Let’s all have a good time and keep it classy, okay?”
One of the louts beckoned my manager close with a curled finger. The manager leaned in to listen.
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a fat fuck?”
My manager’s eyes grew wide. He leaned in. “Did anyone tell you that I fucked your wife?”
“Fuck you, man. You’re just a chumpshit restaurant manager. My wife wouldn’t let you fuck her even if you stole my dick.”
Mr. Manager regained his composure. “Pay up. Get out. Now.”
“Fine, fuck you and this place. We’re outta here.”
They tried to leave without paying. The manager intervened again, this time in the parking lot.
“Hey guys! You owe $67.40. Pay up. Cops are already on their way!”
They argued more. The cops came. The drunk fucks kept spewing bile, even with the law present to witness.
One cop said: “You keep this up and I’ll let this guy beat the shit out of you before I arrest you. Happily. What’s it gonna be?”
They paid and skittered away meekly.
No doubt, once safely ensconced within their vehicle, they said things like:
“I coulda took him down, easy, but he wasn’t worth the effort.”
“That blonde cunt wanted me. I could see it in her eyes, even if she didn’t want to admit it.”
I’ll bet those were the same assholes that put eight AC/DC songs on the jukebox.
11:56 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Friday, November 03, 2006
Side Order #2
It began raining in the ballroom at eight this morning. I was the cloud.
Rather, my dick was the cloud. For the first time in my life, I went sleepwalk pissing. I've always made fun of my dad for peeing in refrigerator bins, on the kitchen floor, or in the entryway closet. Now I've gone and done it.
Unlike him, I wasn't blind stinking drunk, so full of bourbon I could be wrung out like a wet rag. I was just exhausted. After two or three hours of sleep a night for five days straight, I was beginning to crack, my brain liquefying and running from my ears like magma.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
It was one of my roommates yelling at me. Moments before, I had left my room, walked to the balcony, whipped out my junk, and let an arc of bold yellow descend to the first floor, right into a potted plant. Dirt became mud and splashed out onto the wooden flooring. Misty drizzle speckled the wall and the breakfast counter next to the plant.
When my roommate heard this and came out of his room, he yelled at me. I came to, waking up with my dick in my hand. Embarassment flooded my mind. Mild worried confusion washed over me.
This physical weariness is tearing my body apart. I'm so exhausted my brain is crossing wires, short-circuiting, and shutting down in horrifyingly spectacular ways.
I'm a fucking wreck.
12:50 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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