I have two biggest fears: to die a lonely person, and to die stupidly. The other day, I was reading a news story about a 22 year old kid who got drunk and decided to climb a smokestack only to fall 100 feet to his death. At first, I kind of laughed at the stupidity of it, but then I realized that it could have very easily been me. I drink, and I can get a clear image of myself climbing tall objects while under the influence. The only difference between me and this kid, is that I probably would have been clutching a bag of Doritos and a cheeseburger big bite smothered in fake cheese and chili from 7-11. In the manner of stupid deaths, I see myself in an obituary of the Washington Post, describing me as “bright and full of life”, only to have lost an unfortunate battle between a micromachine and the corner of a coffee table where I landed on the exact part of the temple that supposedly kills you instantly. I can imagine what people would say at my funeral: “He was so young. How was he killed? Slipped on a micromachine while drunk you say? At 3pm? On a Monday? How tragic.” Except I would know on the inside, they’d be secretly laughing the same way I had when I’d read the story of the 22 year old plunging to his premature, drunken death.
In terms of dying a lonely person, I have a very real and legitimate cause for concern. It seems I’m constantly falling for the wrong person. Of course, as it often happens, I tell them how I feel and the feelings are not reciprocated the way I would have hoped. “Oh, I really like you. But, I think we’re better off as friends.” Listen homo, I don’t need any more friends. Immediately, I’m transported back to the days of when the only clothes I was able to comfortably fit in were an XL Nautica shirt from Marshall’s and Wrangler jeans from Costco. Then I realize I continue to go after the guys that my therapist would say are completely "emotionally unavailable" only because I enjoy the chase of it all. I’m like a small child. I’ll whine and bitch for shit that I know I can’t have, and then once I get it, I’m on to the next one (as Jay-Z so eloquently puts it). I used to put my mother through this every time we walked through the doors of a Toys R Us…or a Burger King.
I seem to be the type of person that does exactly what I know I should not be doing. For instance, say I run into a guy that I used to really like and he asks me to come over the next day and hang out. I think to myself, “It’s better if you say no. Get your dumb, emotionally dependant ass out of this situation and move on. It’s bad for your mental health to be near this person, you shitsmear.” And, without even letting the guy finish his sentence, I’ll reply with, “I’d love to. What time shall I come over? And should I wear underwear?” And so it goes, around in a circle. This is not to say I’m “easy”. I prefer to think of it more as “I’m easily persuaded”. I’m not so sure why people make things so difficult. If this were my world, things would go as follows:
Boy/girl meets boy/girl: “Hi I think you’re attractive. You smell nice too. I think we could have a lovely time together. Do you have cats? Good. I’m allergic. I think you’re funny and have just the correct balance of ‘nice guy meets asshole’, because no one likes a doormat. Shall we?”
Boy/girl being wooed: “Help me unzip these pants. Dinner seems like an unfortunate waste of pleasantries at this point.”
Fast forward to happily ever after.
Of course, more often than not things don’t go this way. But in Andres world, they would. Things would be far simpler, and I would implant myself with a chip in my head that allows me not to give a fuck about anything. In the real world, I suppose it’s quite the opposite. Unfortunately, I do give a fuck, but I don’t want to. My friend Sadaf once told me, “When people/things bother you, think of blank, white computer paper. It works every time.” I try, except my white computer paper, instead of being blank, is filled with a mixture of grocery lists and unrealistic dreams of a white picket fence with Anderson Cooper as my pool boy and the Kardashian train wrecks as my neighbors. Then I realize that Anderson Cooper is far too over qualified to be employed as my pool boy.
When you’re young, it’s so easy to be filled with grandiose ideas of a life full of glitz and glam and a hot spouse to share it all with you. I hope as I get older, these ideas don’t fade. Actually that’s wrong, because what I really hope is that these ideas fade into becoming a reality. For now, I’ll enjoy my cluttered computer paper scenario, as it keeps me excited for what lies ahead. I just sincerely hope that, at the ripe age of 80-something, I’m not wandering around my nursing home asking people if I should come to their room sans diaper, wearing only a vintage XL Nautica shirt from circa 1998.
~ F.A.G.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Trailer Park
I can’t quite get a grasp on my levels of ADD. When I was younger, I found it hard to listen to my second grade teacher, Ms. Carliner, as she rambled on about the difference between nouns and pronouns. Instead, I focused on her cruel ability to taunt the class with her Roy Roger’s food as she slurped her 30oz. soda and ate soup from a Styrofoam container with Roy
As it was, I found myself heavily involved in my latest book on the Metro when I became distracted by “Trailerpark”. She spoke with a twang and was a mix of Nancy Grace and Pat Robertson from the Christian channel had they had a love child. Her hair was teased on the top with thin blonde bangs that attempted to cover her forehead but seemed to fall awkwardly short, like a midget in high heels. The frumpy fleece jacket she wore fell upon her enlarged “Fupa” that sagged like an overused college beanbag with half the contents missing. So much so, that it seemed like her vagina had contracted an aggressive and tragic strain of elephantitis. She spoke on her phone loudly. “She be telling David that I ain’t allowed ta come over no more, even tho he’s the daddy of my baybees. She fuckin threatinin him by saying she gon speak to his parole officer. Well guess the fuck what, bitch, I ain’t goin no where cuz yur son fucked me and now we gots baybees!!” I’m not sure why, but in this instance it seems a natural reaction to quickly search around for the nearest child, hoping they’re out of earshot. Of course, it just so happened there were two kids sitting diagonal from her, adjacent to a horrified old lady and a quiet looking man whom I assumed was their father. “Well that bitch can eat my twat, ok!? She ain’t got no business comin up in my house and tellin us what to do!” Instantly, I wondered who would be the type of person to eat her twat, and why?
I’ve made it a habit as of late to travel with a notebook almost everywhere I go. On this occasion, I filled my notebook with words like “puffy vag”, “teased hair”, “three-way”, “cunt rag”, “Jew bitch”, and “pussy gadgets”. These were all words that I heard come out of this woman’s mouth, as in, “Tell that Jew bitch cunt rag I’ll send her some of my used pussy gadgets so she can get away from my man because I ain’t havin no fuckin three-way with that nasty fat bitch!” The word “puffy vag” was something I wrote down for my own reference, lest I forget her most distinguishable physical attribute. I began to wonder what her “baybees” with this man looked like, and why the higher being that Ms. Carliner referred to would allow for such a horrible existence.
I imagined her living in a duplex with beige, discolored siding and a screen door that slammed hard enough to annoy the neighbors every time she and David got in an argument about child support or overcooked meatloaf. Instantly, my inner fat kid with low self-esteem started whispering, “See, even this inbred bitch can find love, even if it is inside a duplex in Clarksburg with two overweight children and a 2-door Pontiac Sunbird parked out front.” I fought back by telling myself I’d rather be alone in an apartment full of dead cats on an episode of “Hoarders” than experience life full of pussy gadgets and puffy genitals. “I swear, Crystal, I’ma kick that fucker square in them balls so that they end up lookin like my saggy tits if he gets anywhere near that fuckin bitch cuz aint no way in fuckin hell he’s gon fuck with me or my fuckin kids cuz what I shoulda done is used a coathanger from day one then this motherfuckin cocksucker would be out of my goddamn fuckin life for good!” For a minute, I pictured a coat hanger with eyes and a mouth, like that googly-eyed stack of money from the Geico commercial, kicking and screaming in fear and disgust as it realized her intentions.
As the train came to a stop at the final station and people scrambled to exit, trailerpark shouted, “Come on kids, get yer asses up we’re gonna miss that goddamn bus and I’ll be fuckin damned if I’m waitin for another one!” The ironic part is that I was annoyed with this woman for being so loud and oblivious to her surroundings, yet the entire time I had assumed those children near her belonged to someone else. I guess I was just as oblivious. When the kids grabbed her hand, I laughed at the thought of the duplex being her version of the penthouse in Manhattan, and the kids being her Korean daughters. Somewhere in Clarksburg, a man named David with saggy balls and a FUBU sweatshirt is her version of doctor-guy. And why not? It’s the American dream.
As it was, I found myself heavily involved in my latest book on the Metro when I became distracted by “Trailerpark”. She spoke with a twang and was a mix of Nancy Grace and Pat Robertson from the Christian channel had they had a love child. Her hair was teased on the top with thin blonde bangs that attempted to cover her forehead but seemed to fall awkwardly short, like a midget in high heels. The frumpy fleece jacket she wore fell upon her enlarged “Fupa” that sagged like an overused college beanbag with half the contents missing. So much so, that it seemed like her vagina had contracted an aggressive and tragic strain of elephantitis. She spoke on her phone loudly. “She be telling David that I ain’t allowed ta come over no more, even tho he’s the daddy of my baybees. She fuckin threatinin him by saying she gon speak to his parole officer. Well guess the fuck what, bitch, I ain’t goin no where cuz yur son fucked me and now we gots baybees!!” I’m not sure why, but in this instance it seems a natural reaction to quickly search around for the nearest child, hoping they’re out of earshot. Of course, it just so happened there were two kids sitting diagonal from her, adjacent to a horrified old lady and a quiet looking man whom I assumed was their father. “Well that bitch can eat my twat, ok!? She ain’t got no business comin up in my house and tellin us what to do!” Instantly, I wondered who would be the type of person to eat her twat, and why?
I’ve made it a habit as of late to travel with a notebook almost everywhere I go. On this occasion, I filled my notebook with words like “puffy vag”, “teased hair”, “three-way”, “cunt rag”, “Jew bitch”, and “pussy gadgets”. These were all words that I heard come out of this woman’s mouth, as in, “Tell that Jew bitch cunt rag I’ll send her some of my used pussy gadgets so she can get away from my man because I ain’t havin no fuckin three-way with that nasty fat bitch!” The word “puffy vag” was something I wrote down for my own reference, lest I forget her most distinguishable physical attribute. I began to wonder what her “baybees” with this man looked like, and why the higher being that Ms. Carliner referred to would allow for such a horrible existence.
I imagined her living in a duplex with beige, discolored siding and a screen door that slammed hard enough to annoy the neighbors every time she and David got in an argument about child support or overcooked meatloaf. Instantly, my inner fat kid with low self-esteem started whispering, “See, even this inbred bitch can find love, even if it is inside a duplex in Clarksburg with two overweight children and a 2-door Pontiac Sunbird parked out front.” I fought back by telling myself I’d rather be alone in an apartment full of dead cats on an episode of “Hoarders” than experience life full of pussy gadgets and puffy genitals. “I swear, Crystal, I’ma kick that fucker square in them balls so that they end up lookin like my saggy tits if he gets anywhere near that fuckin bitch cuz aint no way in fuckin hell he’s gon fuck with me or my fuckin kids cuz what I shoulda done is used a coathanger from day one then this motherfuckin cocksucker would be out of my goddamn fuckin life for good!” For a minute, I pictured a coat hanger with eyes and a mouth, like that googly-eyed stack of money from the Geico commercial, kicking and screaming in fear and disgust as it realized her intentions.
As the train came to a stop at the final station and people scrambled to exit, trailerpark shouted, “Come on kids, get yer asses up we’re gonna miss that goddamn bus and I’ll be fuckin damned if I’m waitin for another one!” The ironic part is that I was annoyed with this woman for being so loud and oblivious to her surroundings, yet the entire time I had assumed those children near her belonged to someone else. I guess I was just as oblivious. When the kids grabbed her hand, I laughed at the thought of the duplex being her version of the penthouse in Manhattan, and the kids being her Korean daughters. Somewhere in Clarksburg, a man named David with saggy balls and a FUBU sweatshirt is her version of doctor-guy. And why not? It’s the American dream.
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