October 30, 2002 (idea)
See all of October 30, 2002
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Wed Oct 30 2002 at 21:15:21
The Art of Selling and Buying Time or Love is Severe Brain Damage
Mall: 10:19 am. Immediately I am bombarded by a
woman in a windbreaker
. She rushes up to me,
in her regularly dim eyes, lips pursed, face wrinkled into a permanent frown.
"Do you still have those calenders showing women's
bottoms?" she says, in a self-righteous manner.
Of course we have them,
as long as women have attractive pieces, this corporation will make a calender featuring those parts
"Hot Buns?" I ask, hiding my smile. I will not reveal my utter amusement.
Her glasses are
, her neon yellow and blue
tied around the waist of the jeans that are cut unrevealingly high and tapered at the lower leg, leading up to worn white and blue
s. Her hair is short; mid facial level. An uninteresting cut. The kind of hair no one notices or
s. Her woman companion is her clone, a bobble-headed
. I can tell that these petite unattractive brunettes in thier mid-thirties are
. I can imagine their blank-eyed towheaded
as their moms are standing irritatingly close to me, by the look of them I can tell without a doubt that they are surely avid
members of the
. These woman have never smoked a
, let alone a
power-walk around this mall
(instead of their respective
) out of a
fear of being
I lead them over to a rack filled with calenders featuring
girls in bathing suits
s. I pick up Hot Buns and display it to them. My pink
glistens, I am sweeter than
"Hannah, look at this
. This is disgusting. This is
old hag is appalled, "I can't believe that you display this kind of pornography (she says this with a little extra
in her voice) in clear view of
I'm still holding Hot Buns. My pupils are
, if I could narrow my eyes just a
further, perhaps I could jab these
"Thank you." Shaking her head.
And I am quick to exclaim with
lack of sleep
and lack of
and lack of
and lack of a
"Well are you going to buy the
thing or not!??"
Their ruffled feathers are ruffled further and they briskly
away, swishing ther irritating arms from side to side.
A bad hair cut walks by and provides her damnable insight "Nice hair!".
I am grinding my teeth. I feel the urge to tear out my hair. To spit on the shiny
. I keep my
to myself. Such a display would be bad for
because I'm in
and because the loudspeaker is playing "
I Want to Hold Your Hand
I want to be at the apartment pouring
in my naval and having him
deeply from it.
A young black man walks by as I am scowling at calenders featuring God's little abominations, the
, and chewing my finger obsessively (a little trickle of blood running down my finger) and he says:
"Come on baby, it's not that bad." As he says this he does that snap and point at the same time thing and I'm tempted to whip the Bichon Frise
at his head like a frisbee as he walks away, casually bumping along to some silent unknown beat.
Earlier, he took me for
. One of those Mom and Pop things. One of those places that the same group of old men and women gather at every morning grasping at some
We ate and conversed and watched the traffic on Main Street.
I kept staring at his eyes; foolishly-madly-intoxicatingly-insanely-extremely-crazy-fucked-up in love with him. As he spoke, I could only think one thing; I would
Being around him makes me want to say sappy regurgitated lines that people in love always say to each other in
little places like this.
My heart beats for you.
Love is severe
I like it!
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