Filed under: Dark, Death, Drugs & Alcohol, Flash Fiction, Life, Psychological, Writing, microfiction, short story | Tags: addiction, demons, drugs, recovery, relapse
I found him in his walk in closet. Door closed, naked, holding a shotgun. I could tell by looking at him that he’d been there a while. He had all of his paraphernalia beside him, and remnants of his compulsions littered the floor.
“Dude… I’ve been worried about you.”
“Shut the door. Hurry up and get in here. They’re out there.”
I shut the closet door behind me, sat on the floor cross-legged and put my hand on his leg. He was twitchy and so far gone I barely knew how to relate. He’d been slicing up his arms and legs something awful. The words “HELP ME” sliced into his Right forearm in blood, the words “I HATE THIS” sliced into one of his legs, and a big “X” on his belly.
“God Jay… This isn’t healthy. I can’t watch you spiral down like this”
“Shhh did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“They’re fucking in here, I know they are.”
He clutched the gun closer. I knew it was probably loaded.
“Jay. I just got here remember? I broke in through the back door. Maybe you’re mistaking me for them? I walked through your house. Nobody is in here I swear.”
“They wouldn’t have showed themselves to you. It’s me they want.”
I didn’t bother asking who “they” were, since I was pretty sure that “they” were a fictitious drug-induced form of psychosis. You just can’t rationalize with a crackhead.
He looked like shit, stunk too. Probably hadn’t showered in weeks. It always amazed me how someone who used to be so talented and good-looking could just slide down into hell so easily and become part of the underworld of society. When you’re partying with your friends and everyone’s high and having fun, you don’t think that this is gonna happen to any of you. And when it does, it’s a reality check.
None of our friends came around anymore. I was the last one. Everyone else had been accused of theft, lying, and conspiring against him. He was so fucking paranoid it defied logic. Even the dealers didn’t like coming around. But he was a consistent customer, so they had to.
I put my hand on the shaft of the gun. “Do you want me to take the gun and go look around for you?”
“No… I can’t give it to you.”
“Okay, well do you want me to go look around unarmed? Because I will.”
“Fine. But make sure you look in the backyard and the basement. Be careful.”
I agreed and made my way downstairs into the destroyed house that used to once be filled with friends and life.
Dishes that had been there for weeks collected mold in the sink. Old pizza boxes littered the floor, some still with food in them. The living room was a graveyard of beer bottles, cans, bottles and cigarette buts. At least two cigarettes had burned down to the end by being left and forgotten on the table or floor.
After a good ten-minute inspection of his filthy house, I went back upstairs to report my findings and to bring him some tea.
“Here, drink this. There’s no one down there. You’re just really high.” I sighed. “Listen… Why don’t you come with me to my house for a few days? Get away from this shit hole. You’re in a mental prison here by yourself, and you keep getting high thinking that it’ll make you feel better, but all it does is make you more psychotic. You need to give up the drugs dude. How much worse can things get?”
“I know, I know. I did too much. I bough enough for a two month supply and used it all the past two weeks. It’s all gone. And now I’m too fucking high to go get more and I’m gonna get sick.”
My throat had a lump in it and tears began to sting my eyes “Dude look at you. You’re fucking cut and bleeding everywhere, you’re paranoid as fuck, you don’t have a grasp of reality anymore. You quit the band, you don’t play anymore… You’re spending all your money. A lot of our friends can’t deal with you. You need help.”
“I know” he said
I opened the closet door, stood up and reached down for his hand. He stood to his feet and walked out into his bedroom, squinting at the sunlight coming in through the window.
“Give me the gun Jay. And here, put these on.”
He handed it over and I went downstairs in the basement to hide it while he got dressed.
When I got back upstairs he was lying on his bed shivering.
“Come on, you’re coming with me.”
He didn’t put much of a fight up. I brought him back to my apartment and put him in my bed. Listened to him scream, shout, throw things, cry, and moan in agony for a week. All I did was take him tea, soup, water, vitamins, and T3s. He begged to use my phone, begged me to take him to his dealer, tried to sneak out onto my balcony but realized it was too high, and eventually… gave up.
On the 8th day he emerged from my bedroom wrapped in my pink robe. He came and sat beside me on my couch while I worked.
“Hey” he said “Thanks for giving a shit.”
“If I didn’t, nobody else would” I said “I wasn’t about to watch you kill yourself”
“So, what now?” he asked
“Well you’re not going back to that depressing hell hole you call a home I’ll tell you that much. We’re gonna pack that place up and sell it. You can stay here with me until it sells. You can’t go back there. You’ll just start using again.”
A few weeks later Jay moved into a new apartment, conveniently close to mine. I hosted a BBQ for him and invited all of our old friends who’d abandoned him or who just couldn’t deal with him anymore. Everyone was so surprised to see a clean and socially capable Jay. Girls hit on him again, his old band mates hugged him, and he felt good about himself for the first time in a long time.
Things were going really well… He stayed clean, got a new job in a sound studio and even had a cute girlfriend. I was so proud of him and felt like a parent releasing their child into the world after college graduation.
Then one day I got a phone call.
It was the phone call I always knew could come, but hoped wouldn’t.
It was Jay’s mom.
He was dead.
Filed under: Beauty, Drugs & Alcohol, Flash Fiction, Life, Religion, Writing, microfiction, short story | Tags: homelessness, human compassion, street life
He was standing on the corner a few feet away while I waited for the streetcar. His presence made me kind of nervous in a “are you gonna pull out a knife and stab me” sort of way. He was pacing, nodding his head, and having an enthralling conversation with himself. I tried to observe him out of the corner of my eye without being obvious about it.
People who walked past him gave him a dirty or uncomfortable glance as they veered out of his way. I guess his tattered clothes, dirty dreads, and unstable demeanor made people uneasy, me included. He started singing loudly, something about Jesus, and began moving closer to me.
I threw the last of my smoke on the ground and was about to step on it when he shouted “WAIT”. He swooped over and picked it up inhaling the last few hauls like a fiend. I smiled at him and took two steps back.
He caught me off guard when he asked “So what, are you scared of me?”
“I don’t know” I said “Should I be?”
He started laughing hysterically, nodding his head “seen… I like you girl. You honest. Not like the others.” He pointed to across the street “They – none of them are honest. None of them.”
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“Here? Like you mean on this earth, on this street, in this city?” He asked
“I just mean on the street. What happened?”
He stopped his aggressive pacing, looked down, and then back up at me. “Take off your glasses. I want to see your eyes.”
This made me very uncomforable, but I didn’t want to disrespect him, so I did.
“I am here because I fucked up.” he said “I used to have a job, a wife, a kid, and a life… Now, I’m just happy if I make it through the day with a decent place to sleep and without getting dope sick.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry gal. I made my bed out here on this street. I am the manifestation of my decisions. It’s hard to imagine me going back to join THEM out there in society now. I’m just a muthafuckin junkie. People don’t wanna talk to me, don’t wanna be near me, and don’t even wanna be on the same sidewalk as me.”
“I do” I said.
He kept singing:
“Glory be to Jesus, Who, in bitter pains,
Poured for me the lifeblood
From His sacred veins!”
Tears were falling from his eyes as he stared up at the sky looking for salvation.
My streetcar showed up and stopped in front of me. He looked at me sadly, the way he probably looked at any stranger who gave him the time of day. He was lonely and a little crazy, but there was a soul left inside that body even if it was being held hostage by a depraved junkie.
I waved the streetcar on.
“Wasn’t that your ride?” he asked
“It was, but I can catch another one. What are you doing right now? Do you wanna go grab a coffee?”
He laughed heartily, exposing his missing teeth. The lines around his eyes becoming more pronounced as he squinted in amusement. “Why would you wanna go for coffee with a washed up ol’ junkie like me girlfriend?”
“Why wouldn’t I. Now that I know you’re not gonna kill me or steal my purse I am perfectly comfortable around you. But first I will at least need to know your name.”
He looked at me with a huge amount of gratitude, smiled and said “Oscar”
We hung out at the Second Cup for a while. Cleared a few tables beside us and amassed an incredible amount of judgemental looks from most of the patrons. Oscar wasn’t phased by this. He kept up with his shifty twitches and mannerisms, occasional talks with himself, and spontaneous lyrics.
But he also shared a lot about his former life with me. Told me about how his wife cheated on him, then took off with his daughter and took him to court to seek full custody claiming that he was abusive.
“My daughter was my rock man… My reason for being here. When she took that away from me, what did I have? Nothing!”
“Did you ever try to go back to court and get joint custody?”
“Nah… I had my wages garnished for a while, her punk ass boyfriend threatening me with the bullshit she fed him, and then I got into the junk. In less than a year I lost my job, my car, my apartment, and my friends. And now… I’m here.”
I sat with Oscar for just over an hour and then we started walking back to the streetcar stop. We passed a huge beautiful church. I noticed him looking at it with hopeful eyes.
“You ever go in there?” I asked
“I couldn’t” he said “Not like this.”
“Sure you can. You should. Here – let’s go. I’ll come with you”
I tried to ignore my extreme discomfort with churches and organized religion as a whole, and went through the front doors with him. I stayed back as he walked up to the front and knelt in a pew to pray. The church was quiet. The sounds of the city blocked out. It was actually kind of nice.
A few minutes later he walked up and said “Listen – I think I am gonna hang here for a while. You better go catch that streetcar”
“Okay Oscar” I said “Take care of yourself okay”
That day never did leave me. Every time I returned to that neighbourhood I looked for him. I purposefully walked a few extra blocks just with the hope that I might see him talking to himself on a street corner, singing his Jesus song, or making people uncomfortable with his sketchy but friendly demeanor.
But… I never did.
Filed under: Flash Fiction, Life, Love & Relationships, Porn, Sexy, Writing, microfiction, women | Tags: Drag Queens, Fags, Flash Fiction, Fun, Life, Moms, Porn, sex, Writing
She preferred to hang around with queens and fags. Breeders just weren’t as interesting and always passed judgment on her extra-curricular activities and porn shop career! So what, if she sold ass plugs and dildos for a living… The people she met at work were far more interesting than any of the corporate robots who worked down the street in the business sector.
Sometimes it got slow during the day. She’d start putting batteries in things, cranking the funk, and dancing around the store like a freak. Occasionally the bells would jingle and someone would come into the store and catch her in all her glory. One particular day the bells jingled just as she was singing into a 12 inch vibrating dildo.
It was her mom.
“Mom… Oh… Hi… Oh my god. What are you doing here?”
“I heard you worked here and I just had to find out for myself.”
“HOLD ON… Let me just turn down the music okay.”
She walked over to the stereo to turn down the P Funk blaring out of the store speakers, while feeling slightly uncomfortable about having her mom standing there beside the sex swing.
Her mom straightened her skirt, looked up and said “Dear… What are you doing here?”
“I’m working mom. This is where I work.”
“This is disgusting. It’s perverted. It’s a porn shop.”
She looked at her mom in disbelief. The things that came out of that woman’s mouth were so horribly narrow minded.
“Here mom, have you ever held a 12 inch vibrating dildo?”
“No… Oh… God… get that thing away from me.”
She laughed… “See the problem isn’t me working here. It’s you not having an open enough mind for it to be acceptable. That’s why I told you I was a trainer. I mean, are you worried about what the neighbours will think mom? Because you don’t have to worry… I haven’t encountered any of them yet okay. I’ve been here for a year and a half. It’s nothing new.”
She threw the dildo to the floor “who told you anyway?”
“I can’t say” she said
“Was it Mikey? That little fuck. I’m gonna kill him.”
“Leave your brother out of this. It’s not his fault”
Her mom looked around at the merchandise, obviously very disturbed by what she saw. She sighed. “Honey – can’t you just get a job as an assistant or a secretary in an office or something.”
“Actually mom… I’d rather slit my wrists.”
“Oh don’t be so dramatic. There are a ton of jobs out there that are just as exciting as working here.”
“Oh really… Like what?”
“Like… a… a… I don’t know. But there are interesting jobs out there.”
“Well, I’m not looking. I happen to like flogging porn, dildos, and ass plugs… Okay…. Fuck, why are you here?”
Just then the bell jingled and one of her drag friends, Destiny walked in looking positively glam. She ran over and gave her a big kiss! Destiny circled her mom like a land shark, raised an eyebrow and said “What’s with this one?”
“It’s my mom.”
Destiny laughed “Oh girl… Why didn’t you say so. She looks like Dorothy lost in Kansas in here”.
She gave mom a kiss on each cheek leaving a big Red collagen injected plump kiss mark on either side, then grabbed her hand and lead her through the store like a fucking tour guide at a museum. Occasionally her mom looked back for salvation, but she wasn’t about to try to escape Destiny’s 6 ft 2″ clutches.
While her mom and Destiny toured the store she patiently flipped through the pages of a Hustler mag and bit her fingernails nervously. Suddenly she heard a loud roar of laughter come from the back of the store.
“Mom?” She shouted. “You’re not enjoying yourself are you?”
Her mom walked back up to the counter arm in arm with Destiny. They were both giggling like school girls.
“I’m sorry I judged you” she said. “If you are happy here and it’s what you want. I shouldn’t interfere. Besides… I am actually going to make a purchase today. Shhh don’t tell your dad. Destiny recommended this little Jack Rabbit here.”
“MOM!!! TMI… okay… TMI… If you wanna come in here to visit cool, but I don’t wanna know what you’re buying. In fact, if you wanna be a customer here, I’d prefer it if you came on a day when you know that I’m not working. I don’t want or need the distracting and disturbing visual of you getting your rocks off with the Jack Rabbit okay.”
Her mom laughed “Oh lighten up and ring it in will ya.”
Destiny egged her on like a proud mother hen and she left the store happier than a pig in shit with her new Jack Rabbit vibrator in her ambiguous black shopping bag.
She sighed. “Thanks Destiny”
“Oh it’s what I do best honey. No worries! I do have to apologize though… She will be back.”
“Oh fuck are you serious?”
And she was…
Her mom came to visit once every two weeks for the next 3 months, until she finally couldn’t take it anymore, and quit. She took a job in the business sector as a secretary. It was more money but the job was dry as hell. Thankfully, her boss was a fag.
Filed under: Flash Fiction, Porn, Writing, short story, women | Tags: dating, sluts, STDs, unsafe sex, whoring
Sarah sat in the waiting room nervously, biting her nails and alternating which leg she crossed every 2 minutes or so. Flashes of one night stands with nameless men running through her mind like a movie reel on 8X fast forward.
Ten months ago, she dumped her boyfriend of twelve years. Bryan, her high school sweetheart and the only dick she’d ever really known. The sex was getting boring and predictable, he was getting fatter, and she was way more excited about her dildo than the prospect of sleeping with him. She pictured a long, boring, sexless life ahead of her, filled with regret and lacking in excitement!
It wasn’t until she approached her thirties that she began questioning her relationship. Her girlfriends would tell her that they found it incredibly odd that she hadn’t slept with anyone but him. They’d ask her if she ever thought of having an affair, or how she knew he was any good in bed when she had no one to compare him to. “It’s like being at a buffet and only trying the Chicken” they’d say. She openly talked about sex with her girlfriends, who made her feel like Mother Teresa compared to their slutty and non-settled ways. They treated men as disposable accessories. None of them wanted or craved a relationship.
One night she tried dressing up like a cowgirl to surprise Bryan. She bought a whip, a cowboy hat, and some boots. Put her hair into cute little pigtails and came out of the bathroom cracking her whip wearing nothing but the hat and boots. Bryan took one look at her and started laughing hysterically. He thought it was a joke. His cock off to one side, limper than a soggy string bean!
This angered Sarah tremendously. She took off one of her boots and flung it at Bryan’s head, the heal made a nice gash in his Right temple! She said “You suck… Why am I wasting my life with you?”
Bryan just figured it was PMS, but the very next day while he was at work, Sarah moved out. She took all of her shit (and some of his) and moved in with one of her girlfriends who made a healthy six figure salary and had a massive downtown condo. Her name was Layla. She was a bitch on Bay Street working in the financial district, and a total whore!
Every night Sarah would listen to Layla getting pounded by some random dude. She picked them up everywhere, brought them home, fucked them, then gave them the wrong number or just cold heartedly kicked them out. She had zero interest in relationships, didn’t want to report her whereabouts to any man, and genuinely loved to fuck!
Sarah idolized her.
Of course it was only a matter of time before Sarah and Layla began hitting the clubs together. They acted more like horny college guys than women, and brought home different guys a few times a week. They were what most would call “cougs”… Horny women in their 30s who just wanna get laid.
One morning Sarah woke up and her crotch was itchy and burning. “Layyyyyla” she screamed
“What hon”
Sarah began crying “I don’t know… My fuckig pussy is sore, it’s burning. What does that mean?”
Layla smiled, “Don’t worry, it’s probably nothing… At most it’s The Clap”
Sarah threw her head into her hands and bawled shouting “The Clap? What the fuck is The Clap?”
Layla said “Dude, I’ve had a half dozen STDs in my life… They go away! Sometimes it just happens. Just don’t fuck for a week.”
Sarah began thinking about the past few months she’d had. Sure they’d been fun, but she never bothered to ask any of the men she brought home if they had anything, and only a couple insisted on condoms. More often than not, they were drunk and careless. She just assumed that it was safe.
She stared at the cold tiled floor in the doctors office illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lighting.
“Sarah Walters?” called the nurse
She jumped up nervously and ran down the hall to the office. She could feel her heart beating loudly, her palms were sweaty, she felt every swallow of saliva go down her throat nervously. The walls were narrow and her eye sight was blurry. Visions of disease began cycling through her head like a fucking horror show.
She sat down and did some deep breathing exercises. Tried to tell herself that no matter what happened it would be fine. She could always sleep with Bryan, give him The Clap and then he’d have to take her back.
“Hi Sarah, how are you?” said the Doctor, “Haven’t seen you in a while. Your mom was just in the other day.”
Ohhhhhh gawd she thought to herself. Please don’t talk about my family right now.
“So, it looks like you have an infection” he said
Sarah’s eyes went wide, as if surprised by this startling news flash “Oh really? What kind of infection?” She asked.
“Nothing to worry about. Just a little yeast infection that’s all.”
Sarah started laughing hysterically “A yeast infection?” she shouted. “Really?”
The doctor looked at her precariously and said “Yes, a yeast infection.”
He handed her a prescription and she danced her way down the hall and back through the waiting room. “IT WAS JUST A FUCKING YEAST INFECTION… IT’S NOT THE CLAP!!” she shouted on her way out the door. Roars of laughter from the waiting room rang through the air.
Sarah was happy. She didn’t have to go back to Bryan afterall.
Filed under: Life, My Life, Odd, Personal Note, Quirky, Random Nonsense, WTF? | Tags: 500 posts, me, personal, Random, stuff
For my 500th post, I’m gonna tell you some intimate and potentially embarrassing secrets about myself… Okay, maybe not totally intimate, but personal stuff none the less. And not anything too embarrassing… I mean, why would I write a post and do nothing but make fun of myself. That would just be stupid. Soooo yeah…
I can never eat a meal that is room temperature, luke, or stone fucking cold. If it ain’t hot, I ain’t eating it! Same goes for coffee, tea and any other hot beverage. There’s a reason why you serve it hot. And if it’s supposed to be cold, guess what?! I don’t want it tepid, warm, or in a sweaty glass.
When the weekend hits its time for Lingo to drink, and when I drink I like to smoke, and when I smoke I have to drink. Literally… I cannot smoke without a drink in hand for me to take sips from. I don’t like going for a smoke on it’s own with no drink to wash it down with.
When I am reading my daughters a bedtime story I go ape shit if they start not listening, interrupting, or checking out of the story. I don’t have to put on all these ridiculous fucking voices and act out every scene with the vigor of a broadway actress… But I do, because I like books, and I want them to fucking like books! So not reading, is not an option… And if they’re not gonna listen, then the book will be launched at the bookshelf and I will exit the room promptly.
I bought a huge honkin’, gas guzzling, pig of an SUV ON PURPOSE…. Because I had an accident on the highway in a MINI Cooper and suddenly felt tiny and vulnerable. My SUV gave me a sense of superiority on the road for a while, but now that I am comfortable driving again it makes me sick. I feel like slashing my own tires and writing “gas pig” on the back window in spray paint… but then, I guess no one would wanna buy it.
Many of my stories involve therapy and psychology type stuff because I happen to know a lot about that world. I go to therapy regularly and have had the same therapist for a year and a half. I’ve also been on a ton of meds (diagnosed with BiPolar disorder) but am no longer taking anything and am managing just fine on my own. Many brilliant minds suffer from madness and mental trauma. Truth be told, my BPD is not all that bad. Sure I’ve had some scary manic moments and some horrendous depressive states, but more often than not, I am just really FUN and SPONTANEOUS when I’m manic, and I just ignore the world for a few days when I’m depressive. I can deal with that.
I just got a new tattoo on Friday, so this has been on my mind. For 12 years (since getting my first tattoo) my mom has been telling me that tattoos are “just a fad” and that I’ll outgrow them and come to resent them all… Even though I haven’t stopped getting them and have never regretted a single one. Even the one I have near my pelvic area, that since having kids, has now been transformed from a small Welsh dragon, to a giant Red barbapapa! The reality is… I am going to be covered. When I am 60, I will probably have 60 tattoos! I will take my girls to get their first tattoo and get one with them!!! I will take my grandkids to get their first tattoo and again… Get one with them! I fucking love body art and I don’t care if that makes me a crazy bitch when I’m in my golden years! It’s more uncommon to NOT have a tattoo these days anyway. My body art is the story of my life, and that story doesn’t end until my life ends.
I host slam poetry events even though I am far from a slam poet. Sure I perform poetry and read my stuff to an audience sometimes, but I am not comfortable doing it and feel nervous every single time. I am only comfortable here, alone, with my computer and my words glowing back at me while a cursor flashes. I’m a writer, not a performer… My words are meant to be read and digested in your own voice. I don’t want to give that voice to you. I am very social online, but sometimes socially retarded in person. I get flustered and weird, and just generally awkward if all of the stars and planets aren’t in perfect alignment for me. People often think I’m weird… And, well, they’re not wrong. That’s why my license plate says “Quirky1″
The TV angers me. If I’m in the house and there’s two TV’s on and nobody watching either one, I will snap. I have to shut them off in about fifteen seconds before I experience total meltdown. The noise and chaos of the TV is incredibly annoying and something that I just hate. My parents used to have the TV on during dinner and it would be so loud and annoying. Nobody would talk because they’d be too busy watching the news, or Wheel of Fortune, or sometimes Jeopardy if it was a late dinner. Think about the act of watching television… I mean you’re sitting there staring at a box instead of talking to your loved one, going outside, or experiencing something different! I’d be perfectly happy without a TV at all. I really don’t watch a lot of TV, and if I do, it’s usually a movie or something that’s On Demand.
I love Japanese Kawaii culture peppered with punk & ska. Tank Girl is one of my comic book idols. I sometimes dress like a comic book character or a post-apocalyptic punk princess. I am not sure I’ll ever really look like “a mom”… Even though I am a mom to two girls. I’m sure that the PTA is going to love me when they meet me in September. I don’t have an Ash blonde helmet, my girls aren’t in soccer, and I don’t drink coffee at the park while gossiping about all the other moms in the hood. And I call myself a mom!
And finally… I’m scared of being normal. Meaning, I never wanna get lame, boring, or settle into a mainstream routine and become a robotic product of society.
Filed under: Beauty, Death, Life, Writing, short story, women | Tags: aging, alzheimers disease, family, relationships
She sat in the plush wingback chair in the living room of her grandmas house listening to the old grandfather clock tick. It’s slow and steady hands working tirelessly to tell the time, as they had for over 60 years. She waited patiently while her mom Andrea was upstairs helping her grandma get dressed. The thought of her one day having to do that for her mom freaked her out immensely.
The house smelled like an eerie combination of dust and death. The curtains drawn, let little light in, and all of her grandmas once loved plants were now dead. The house felt abandoned, much like her grandmas memory. She didn’t understand how anyone could live in such depressing conditions.
Her mom and grandma came down the stairs slowly. Her grandma wearing a white cardigan and khaki pants. She smiled warmly and said “Oh… Hello. Who are you?”
“Hi Grandma” she said
Her grandma looked at her daughter and then at her granddaughter and made the connection “Oh… You’re my granddaughter?”
She smiled again and said “And where do you live?”
“In New York, with mom… Where I’ve always lived.”
Her mom interjected “Sophie – Don’t be so rude.”
“Well sorry mom, but I get tired of answering the same questions all the time.”
Her grandma came and sat beside her and touched her hand. Tears began to well up in her crystal blue eyes and she said “I am sorry I don’t always remember things, but I know by looking into your eyes that you love me, and that I love you.”
Sophie felt awful. “I’m sorry grandma. It’s just hard to see you like this. I mean, you used to help me with my homework and watch horror movies with me, and tell me stories about your childhood. I guess… I just miss you, that’s all.”
Andrea wiped a tear from her face and leaned against a wall watching the exchange between her daughter and mother. A part of her wished that she was sitting in the spot where her daughter was, that the exchange had happened between her and her mother. She felt a streak of jealousy rush through her blood.
“Well, I guess we should go” she said, breaking up the moment.
“Where are we going?” Asked grandma
“To dinner, to celebrate Sophie’s graduation. We’re going to your favourite place.”
“Oh.” She said “What’s the name of the place?”
“It’s called The Olive Garden.”
They arrived at the restaurant and took their seats. Sophie watched as her grandma stared at the menu in utter confusion. She was obviously having difficulty. “Grandma – why don’t I tell you what they have, and you can let me know what sounds good.”
She began taking the menu away until her mothers hand rested on top of hers. “No, you figure out what you want. I’ll do this.”
Sophie shot her a look and said “Okay… Whatever. Just trying to be helfpul.”
She watched as her mom inched her chair closer to her mother, pointing at the menu items, reading them out, and sometimes explaining what they were. Finally they settled on Chicken Parmigiana.
“Where are we?” asked grandma
“At the Olive Garden restaurant” said Sophie
“Oh. Okay. And who are you?”
“I’m your granddaughter.”
She looked at Sophie’s mom next and said “And… who are you dear?”
Andrea broke down in tears “I’m your daughter mom. Don’t you know me anymore?” It was the first time that grandma had asked her that question, even though she routinely forgot her grandchildren, neighbours and close friends along with many other essential functions of daily life.
“Mom, don’t take it so personally. She can’t help it.”
Grandma stared down at the table, confused by what had just happened, but knowing that it had something to do with her.
Andrea tried to regain her composure. She took a sip of water, wiped her eyes with her napkin, and cleared her throat. She was a mess. Inside and out.
Their meals came and they ate in relative silence, with the exception of a few repetitive questions from grandma. Suddenly Sophie threw her napkin down to her plate and said “You know… Mom, if there’s something you haven’t said to grandma or something you would like to say, why don’t you just say it. It’s better than sitting there in agony.”
Grandma looked up and smiled at Sophie then at her daughter. She knew that they were talking about her, but she wasn’t sure in what capacity.
Andrea said “What are you talking about Sophie? What haven’t I told her?”
“How about “I love you” mom. Have you told her that you love her?”
“She knows I love her.”
“Oh just like she knows who we are” Sophie shot back.
The table fell silent, only the sounds of forks and knives scraping the plates.
Sophie stopped chewing and said “You know you have never told me that you love me mom. Not once.”
“Oh don’t be ridiculous! You know I do.”
“Well maybe you can’t tell grandma for the same reasons you can’t tell me. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Just because I don’t say it all the time, doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.”
Sophie knew that her mom had an emotional block of sorts going on. She always had. Her responses to normally emotional encounters were cold and formulated. Her recent display of emotion had nothing to do with her dying mother or her lack of meaningful genuine connection with her daughter… It was menopause. She swung from high to low daily.
Andrea stared at her mom, down at her plate, and then back at her mom. She cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. “Mom – you know… that… I love you…. don’t you?”
Grandma stared up at her reserved daughter who was trying to show some vulnerability. “Thank you dear. I love you too. I am sorry that my mind doesn’t work the way it used to. It’s a hard way to live. It’s hard not to recognize the people who love you.”
Andrea took a sip of water and clenched her mothers hand, holding on tightly to what little she had left, while Sophie wondered if she would one day sit in her mothers chair.
Filed under: Bitchy Rants, Culture, Flash Fiction, Life, Love & Relationships, Pop Cult., WTF?, Writing, microfiction, women | Tags: conditioning, love, marriage, relationships, society
I always thought I wanted to get married… When I was little I fantasized about my wedding day. Not so much the man standing beside me (he was more of an accessory), but more what I would wear, the artistic inspiration for the event, where it would be, what we would eat, how many people would be in attendance. That sort of thing. So, I guess it had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with wanting to be the belle of the ball by having my $30,000 day like everyone else.
As I got older, I just figured I would be fine with marriage, since it was a concept that I have been relatively comfortable with since childhood. After all, I am a woman. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do? Meet a man, get married, pump out a kid or two, then spend the rest of our days with a nasty little martini habit and a really great vibrator. That’s why we’re here right?
Then… why did I want to vomit and run when he got down on one knee? Why did my surroundings begin to spin like a merry go round, while flashes of dagger glares, back handed compliments and 30 extra pounds played through my mind like a never ending nightmare. I thought men were the ones who were supposed to freak out about losing their freedom, identity and sexual prowess.
Suddenly I began questioning my beliefs, my morals, myself… My place in this world.
I knew I had gently allowed things to move in this direction, and by gently I mean actively. But now that it was here… I wanted to abruptly shove it back the other way.
Return to sender please.
I like my last name. I like not knowing what tomorrow brings. I like being a free agent, and not having a dog leash attached to my neck while some man shows me off like a cheap Armani suit. This has nothing to do with love and everything to do with fear. Marriages fail, people cheat, get bored, and quietly resent each other until one of them has the balls to leave. Women stare at their husbands while they’re sleeping at night and secretly plot their deaths.
Who was I kidding… I have the attention span of a gnat and (in case you didn’t notice) a bit of an anger problem. I’m not marriage material. I’m reality TV and front-page scandal material.
I guess I surprised him by saying no.
Maybe he was only asking because he thought that’s what I wanted. Maybe I was only making him think I wanted it, because I thought I SHOULD want it. Maybe neither one of us “really” wanted this at all.
Maybe none of us should want this.
My sex life had come to a screeching halt, which was nice.. Because my dog had become a little too comfortable watching us go at it every night. I was expecting to see him with a pair of 3D glasses scarfing down a bag of popcorn with his tongue hangin’ out of his mouth. And nobody wants their pets watching them shag. So the mental and physical break was sort of welcome.
There was this lingering feeling of “what next… what do we do now”… But I never really owned those feelings. Those were the feelings of decades of repressed women, media empires, and religious tradition leaking their way into my unconventional psyche.
I think it’s an inherent flaw in myself and others to assume that in order to have a successful relationship, marriage is the next logical step, when statistics shout loud and clearly quite the opposite. I am the confused result of 30 + years of classical conditioning, media, bad 80s sitcoms, and drunk abusive neighbours who really had WONDERFUL marriages (I swear). I’m like a post-apocalyptic outlaw trying to sit down to a nice wholesome dinner with the Cleaver family. I mean really… What the fuck would we talk about?!
I can’t help but admire people like Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, who have been happily unmarried for years. There are lots of examples of unmarried couples who somehow manage to dodge the dismal statistics that marriage seems to thrust upon the rest of committed society.
Then there’s the ones with balls. The free spirits, the anti-conformists, the ones who dance to the beat of their own drum. They go out; fuck and love freely, accept experience and variety into their lives, and often later the companionship of many cats.
Either way… Isn’t it better than snickering in bed every night while you imagine your husband choking on his dinner and dying?!
Filed under: Dialogue, Evil, Flash Fiction, Love & Relationships, Writing, microfiction | Tags: anger, bitchy women, Girly men, therapy
He sat me down and said “this is gonna be hard for you to watch” and I had no idea what he was talking about. He gave me a nervous glance and then pressed play on the DVD player. It was a collage of my monumental anger. Throwing the utensil drawer to the floor littering it with knives, forks and spoons. Typing on my computer and aggressively pounding the buttons until the keys flew off the keyboard. Slamming the door as hard as I could five times to imitate the neighbour across the hall. Ripping down our curtains and the curtain rod in a rage of anger about something unrelated. Shouting “SHUT THE FUCK UP” at the cute (but loud) little dog who lives next door while banging on the wall. Throwing the cordless phone against the wall because it was dead. These types of things…
The movie played for about 10 minutes and featured an impressive selection of footage. I wondered how he had managed to capture so much footage of me without my knowing.
He turned off the machine. “Don’t be mad” he said.
My face was getting hot, my teeth were grinding, and my heart began beating fast. I forced an artificial passive aggressive smile “Mad? Why would I get mad at that? It was funny!”
“I think you need to talk to someone” he said
“Why? Because I have a couple of bad days and you manage to capture them?”
“You’re getting worse. Nobody feels comfortable talking to you anymore, because they think you’re just going to insult them. Nobody wants to say no to you, because they’re afraid of the repercussions. The apartment is beginning to look like a domestic case. Holes in the walls, damaged floors, lots of broken shit.”
“It’s not a big deal. I just like to get it out. It’s not good to repress your anger you know.”
“It’s not good to be a rage-a-holic either” he said
I felt myself getting pissed! I wanted to punch him in the face and light his hair on fire. Most men appreciated my anger, it made me damn good in bed and added to my already intense personality. Yet this sensitive little fucker who I’d only been dating for 3 months was telling me I had a problem and needed therapy! Where did he get off?!
“I don’t feel that it’s necessary to talk to anyone. I’m not into talking about my feelings and shit. I feel better after I freak out about something. I think a therapist would just make it worse. I don’t wanna sit on a couch with a tissue box beside me telling some fucking stranger who’s just as fucked up as I am what my problem is, when there is no problem! Yes I get very angry sometimes… So what?!”
“Will you try? Just once? Please?”
“No”
“So I should just sit by quietly while you destroy the apartment, scare the neighbours and just generally rage about life”
“Yes. That would be nice”
“You’re so fucking stubborn, you know that?”
“What’s your point. This is me, I don’t want or care to change. If you don’t like it, there’s the door.”
“How can you be so cold?” he asked
“Because I’m Frosty the FUCKING SNOWBITCH okay… Leave me alone. Fuck off. Go fix your own life you fucking pansy.”
He stared down at the floor. I think I saw a tear fall from his eye. He knew he wasn’t gonna change me and that his efforts were futile. I don’t go into relationships to be changed. I like who I am, angry or not. And I don’t care if I offend, insult, or scare people. That’s their problem, not mine!
He looked up, his eyes Red and watery. It took every ounce of restraint in my body to not ask him why he was crying like a little girl. I didn’t feel comfortable with this situation. I am not the woman who appreciates the over-sensitivity of a man, especially one who routinely wears chap stick. And I’m not the kind of woman who can handle seeing him cry about something so ridiculous. Someone dies… Okay, cry away. Your girlfriend says no to anger therapy… Suck it up bitch!
Comforting someone (especially a man who’s dropping tears all over my couch) was definitely not my forte.
“So, where does this leave us?” he asked with a shaky tremble in his voice.
“I don’t know…Why don’t you give your balls a squeeze and we’ll talk” I said
My tongue was sharp. I knew that. I’ve never been the type to have one of those internal filters that stops you from saying things that are hurtful or mean to people. My brutal honesty and willingness to say what I “really” think has been an ongoing theme in my life.
He got up and stormed to the bedroom to pack a bag.
Again, my complete lack of internal filters allowed me to continue on. “Oh so you’re gonna pack and leave now because you didn’t get me to do what you want? Is that how this works? Well what about YOUR issues… Like how you piss the bed every time you get drunk, or your fucking crying… What the FUCK is with that? I know chicks going through menopause who cry less than you. And let’s not forget your unnatural obsession with your mother. Why don’t you just go fuck her and get it over with.”
Clothes hanging out of his half-packed bag, he brushed past me aggressively and said “I’ll be back for the rest of my shit when you’re not here.”
He slammed the apartment door and headed down the hall to the elevator.
I ran to the kitchen to grab the tissue box. Opened the door and threw it down the hall, hitting him in the side of the head. “Here’s some tissues you pansy.” I said “Maybe you should go write this in your journal”.
I went back inside, lit a smoke and sighed a huge sigh of relief.
The remote was still sitting on the couch. I pressed play and sat there laughing hysterically at my epic anger collage rewinding and replaying the funniest parts until my stomach hurt from laughing.
Filed under: Flash Fiction, Life, Love & Relationships, Writing, microfiction, short story | Tags: aging, Depression, Life, reflection, Regret, relationships
I don’t know why I always assumed that I would just have what I’ve always wanted out of life. I guess part of growing up is realizing that sometimes your childhood dreams do not transpire, and sometimes those dreams whither away like aging plants… And you just have to let them go.
When I was young it seemed that life was all about the dress rehearsal. The preparation, the planning, the anticipation of a life about to begin. I had a perpetual twinkle in my eye that spoke of my potential, a twinkle that told me to keep dreaming, keep learning, keep planning… Life would soon be here.
And then it arrived without warning.
I think I realized it around 3:45AM one somber Saturday morning after a half bottle of Jack Daniels and what seemed like endless episodes of infomercials about salad spinners, storage containers, and closet space savers. My living room was dark, just the glow of the television on my face. I was curled into a ball, drunk on my sofa… alone. Just like I had never imagined I would be. The kitchen had dishes in the sink that were beginning to smell and I had no desire to wash them.
My cat looked at me sympathetically, echoing the sentiments of my therapist only days earlier when he told me “not everyone needs to be married with kids to have a successful life… You’re a great lawyer, you have lots of friends, financial freedom… Some would consider that to be a tremendous success”.
I knew he was lying. Trying to make my life sound better than it was so that I wouldn’t go home and overdose on Vicodin and Xanax or drown myself in a bathtub filled with really expensive bath salts.
It sounds stupid, but when I was a little girl I used to dream about my married life. About the man (or prince) who would ride into my life like a shining knight in armor and whisk me away from all of life’s hurt and pain, showering me with love and affection for the rest of my life. It never occurred to me that while I was waiting for that man, I would age, become an alcoholic, become bitter and unapproachable, and a completely different person than I envisioned I would be.
Every man who’d ever entered my life was either there to fuck, or there to control me… neither of which impressed me. My relationships always ended badly, like an episode of Who’s the Boss.
I drove them away, or kicked them out… One or the other. But it never lasted long and almost always ended in disaster.
It’s easy for a man to be in his 40s and be single. They don’t get criticized the same way women do. A woman gets labeled and judged, especially one who’s never been married. At least divorcees have each other. Lonely, single, so-called successful women like myself are what’s commonly referred to as “damaged goods”. The question “I wonder why she never married” on the tip of everyone’s inquiring little tongue.
But of course no one asks “hey – what happened to your life anyway?”
No… Instead, they smile, pretend that my life is perfectly normal and complete. That I am happy and satisfied… and then talk about how horribly lonely and depressed I must be behind my back, when they go home to their children and their families. They kiss their children and hold them tight, give their husband an appreciative embrace, as they think about how lucky they are to have what they have, in comparison to me.
I’ve become good at acting the part. Pretending that marriage and kids aren’t what I want. That I don’t have time in my life to have a relationship with anybody, and that I am too focused on my career to even stop to think about those things. Sometimes I even convince people that I don’t like kids, that they annoy me and that I’d make a terrible mother.
People lie to me, and I lie to them. That’s how it goes. Because nobody wants to hear the truth and I can’t handle it sober.
Sometimes I wish I could go back to that dress rehearsal. To the little girl who had a twinkle in her eye… hopes and dreams, and years to fulfill them. I would whisper in her ear “Don’t give up on love. Ever.”
Filed under: Flash Fiction, WTF?, Writing, funny shit, microfiction, short story | Tags: dating, losers, low brow, nightmares
Our first (and last) date consisted of a monster truck rally, a corn dog, a few beers, and some low brow discussion that could only be matched by a gun-toting red neck living in a trailer with a toilet on his front lawn. We had absolutely NOTHING in common… except that we both had profiles posted on LavaLife. He liked my tits and I liked his headless profile picture. Which… in retrospect, should’ve been a warning sign.
When we spoke on the phone, I thought his total lack of culture and intelligence was just because he was shy. He knew I was into wine, art, fashion and music… So I never quite figured out why he was so insistent on taking me to a monster truck rally. In retrospect… I should’ve noticed the Red flags.
I had been going through a rather severe dry spell and wasn’t really interested in a relationship, so much as I was in getting laid. But when he came to pick me up in his 1985 rusty mustang crankin’ ACDC Thunderstruck… I knew that it was gonna be a bust. I couldn’t back out though, he was there at my door… Well, okay. Not at my door, but parked in my driveway honking his horn. Waiting for me.
Reluctantly, I headed out the door… Popping a few Vicodin’s on my way to his car. He hooted and hollered at me as I approached the car, like I was some sort of show dog. The car door creaked horrifically when I opened it.
“Hi” I said
“Hello to you pretty lady. Looking Goooood.”
I smiled in front of gritting teeth, desperately wanting to get out and say “you know what dude… this just isn’t gonna work for me”.
But I didn’t.
I sat there knowing that I was not going to enjoy my night out with this primate and that our evening was not going to end with an orgasm!
“Do you like ACDC?” he asked as he cranked it up furthering the deafening blows to my eardrums.
“SURE” I shouted “I CAN SEE YOU’RE A FAN.”
He rocked back and forth tapping his steering wheel aggressively as I dug inside my purse to locate some dark disguising sunglasses. It would be the end of me if anyone saw me with this guy. The Vicodin’s were beginning to kick in, which was good. “A little pill cocktail, some booze, and a sense of humour should get me through the night” I thought. My eyes were getting glazed over and I felt like I was in a red neck video game where the goal is to trash the car.
We got to the monster truck rally and took our seats. He looked at me grinning ear to ear “good seats eh”.
“Uh heh… Great” I said sarcastically.
“Are you hungry or anything? I don’t mind picking us up a corn dog” he said
“Wow, aren’t I lucky. I’d love a corn dog. Are you sure you don’t mind picking up the tab?”
“Anything for you pretty lady.”
“How about a pint of Stella then too since you’re up”
I reveled in the ten minutes I had to myself, popped another Vicodin for good measure and checked my cell phone for possible booty calls.
Nothing. This fuck was my only prospect… How horribly depressing.
He came back with two beers and two corn dogs. I watched him in utter disgust as he scarfed down his corn dog while talking, bits of food flying out of the corner of his mouth and stuck between his teeth. I think he sensed my disgust because he said “Oh shit I guess it’s kinda rude to talk with yer mouth open isn’t it.”
I smiled a loopy pill-induced smirk. He droned on about sports, pit bulls, hunting, cars, and sex. I tried to contain my excitement. I sent him to get me a 3rd beer and he dug his hand into his pocket in defeat “Actually, I only have about $5 left on me and I need that for gas”.
I raised an eyebrow and dug in my purse for a $20.
“Here” I said “Keep the change” and then under my breath I said “you filthy animal” as he turned his back.
When he returned with another beer ten minutes later I was talking to a nice guy named Jake who was sitting next to me. He happened to work on the same street as I did. We were laughing about my date, and coming up with hilarious excuses for me to leave.
The primate was angered by this.
“Hey – are you talking to my girl you fuck?”
“Uhhh totally NOT your girl” I interjected
“Listen sweetheart, I’ll handle this”
He puffed up his chest like an animal, raised his chin and said “I’ll be watching you, you dumb shit.” (which I thought was very ironic). Thankfully Jake and I had already exchanged numbers while the primate was getting my beer. I winked at him and he knew not to talk to me until I ditched the cave man.
The only female driver in the show was about to crush 20 cars with her hot pink monster truck. I actually got excited and started hollering. He looked at me and said “what are you cheering for her for? She sucks. You can’t have no Pink fuckin’ monster truck. And anyway… I don’t trust anything that bleeds for 7 days and doesn’t die.”
It was at that point I began laughing hysterically. At me, at him, at the fact that I was even there. It was time to use one of those excuses Jake and I had come up with. “Listen – I’m gonna have to go. I just remembered, I am supposed to attend the opening of my garage door.”
“What? You’re leaving NOW?”
Jake stood up, put his arm around me and said “No dude… WE’RE LEAVING.”
“You’re a whore” he said
“You never had a chance” I shot back “Not even close. You’re worse than a bad case of explosive diarrhea!”
Jake pushed him down into his seat as we walked past and got the hell out of there.
And my night ended with an orgasm after all.
