Shackled in literary magazine purgatory, I’ve exchanged my exhaustive search for mediums to send my work to for writing an essay a day, mostly about nothing, for I don’t do anything.
Yesterday, I ate pizza for dinner (pepperoni, because a knack for self-harm doesn’t go away overnight). I learned that my mother has been cutting onions incorrectly for over 50 years. I pulled a bully stick out of the bag for my dog and it was bent in the middle at a 90 degree angle. “What the fuck did they do to this poor dick before they hacked it off?” I asked no one in particular, and enjoyed that I was finally graced with the opportunity to say that question out loud. I laughed my way through a David Sedaris essay about smokers, for he captured the aura of (hazy) apologetic doom that surrounds us perfectly. I did not skyrocket to instant stardom within five minutes of having my first article published like I wished, strictly for the potential of fresh, exciting content to write about. I’m not lazy and I’m not looking for a cheap shot: I’m bored.
Everyday, I drive around for about half an hour before I resign to hunching over my computer. I use this time to catch up on my smoking as my Adderall kicks in (the only cigarette that beats the first one of the morning is the first one after you take some uppers), listen to music, and brainstorm what variant of nothing I will write about. My first idea for the day was to finally be candid about my struggles with eating disorders, but that sucks; that’s not funny, and I hate being honest unless it’s funny. Someone may find my experience with anorexia similar to their own and take comfort in that, but I wasn’t as bad off as many, and I am still not quite well. I don’t have anything uplifting to say or any decent advice to offer.
“Well, I lost my job, so my mom finally got the chance to keep an eye on me. She cooks me dinner every night and doesn’t let me decline. Everyone says I look better, and I do, but I’d be just as happy if I didn’t. I even avoid looking at old pictures of myself.”
Great, Rose! Thank you for having the courage to share the tale of your triumphant recovery with us! Your obvious indifference to the concept of bettering yourself is a motivation to us all!
I must have been really scrambling for a better pitch so I could scrap that because my next thought was, “What about when I walked the governor to his table with a big load of dried nut on my pants? That one was a crowd pleaser back in the day!”
(“Crowd pleaser” was an exaggeration: I am sure that my same three coworkers who always laughed at my jokes didn’t let me down, but it was the catalyst to hooking up with a highly esteemed guitarist…)
I met a guy at a bar who was Puerto Rican, beautiful, and an overwhelmingly stupid pain in the ass — I winced when he spoke like I was staring into direct sunlight with a migraine. He had poorly done, bleached-blonde hair that was a kink of mine until I accepted that it was a blantant indicator of a man being an overwhelmingly stupid pain in the ass. We spent an evening out together and I rewarded him with my pussy because his hospitality was undeniable: From him, I learned the trick to spending the minimum amount of money possible while bar hopping besides conning friendly and inebriated strangers into paying for your tab:
First, you buy a case of domestic beer commonly available at most bars, like Heineken or Corona. You leave it in the trunk of your car that is parked in the epicenter of your favorite haunts for convenient reupping of libations when necessary. Before making your grand entrance, you stick a few bottles in your pockets. At last, you mosey on in, appear nonchalant in the safety of the crowd, crack those bad boys open with your teeth (or a lighter…), and cheers with your fellow frugal, genius homies!
I was exhausted at work the next day. My boss at the time stopped me while I was slowly making my way through my opening duties. “Rose, don’t fuck up that 12:30 reservation. Hold the table all day. It’s very important.”
“Oh, are you bringing the family in?” I smiled and asked, though the fraud in my voice hurt my ears.
(I hated him and he hated me; I wanted him dead and he wanted me fired. We had made it two days without engaging in a petulant screaming match over one of us intentionally misunderstanding the other because we wanted an excuse to fight: He always hoped it would escalate until he had no option but to fire me, and I always hoped he would upset me enough that I would grab a serrated knife designated for when a guest orders a steak and plunge it into his chest. He had too much pride to be the one to break our unusual streak of peace, and I enjoyed letting him down and keeping him waiting with my feigned congeniality.)
“Don’t you recognize the name?”
I glanced over it again — it was the state governor.
“Oh. Went right over my head. Sorry, I’m a little tired. Should I make ‘RESERVED’ signs out of that yearbook photo of him in blackface?”
I anticipated gunfire and reflexively ducked, but he just laughed.
(His intolerance for intolerance was the only thing that kept me from believing that he was inherently evil: He condemned racism, misogyny, and corruption [outside of his own managerial style]. If him and Donald Trump were standing on the side of a cliff, begging for their life as I was given the command by God to roundhouse kick one of them to the sharp, jagged rocks and starving piranhas below, I, obviously, would have to do what was right for my country, but I would hesitate for a moment. Don’t think I wouldn’t!)
I had the easiest and briefest role in the governor’s visit and it went smoothly; neatly laying the menus down as they settled in their seats at the best table the restaurant had to offer, I nodded and smiled at each guest as I said, “Your server will be right over to get you started on drinks. Enjoy your brunch, everyone.”
It was during my walk back to my post that I was struck with the inclination to gaze down at my pants, which were the same pants I wore during my rendezvous the night before, for I only had one pair. They were splattered in what was once a milky substance, now dried, and could’ve been excused as snot had it not been clearly placed by the expert aim of a hard, throbbing dick that had been yanked from the depths of my insides at the last possible, most precious moment…
(We had sex in the downstairs living room of an apartment that was not his, nor was he even temporarily staying at, and his friend that did reside there had numerous roommates that we were not introduced to and were at risk of coming down for a late night snack or drink refill at any moment. He pulled my tampon out for me and sat it on a coaster on their coffee table. We fucked hastily like guilty teenagers, still in our clothes, but I really didn’t recall him shooting millions of his potential idiot children onto my pants — I could’ve sworn I swallowed! It’s the easiest clean up! I guess the few beers I chugged before my shift [at 10am] had done well to fade some of the shittier details of the night….
Too well, maybe: I didn’t look in the mirror before I left.)
“Damn,” I whispered, scraping the splatter with my fingernail to see if it would flake off. “The governor’s here. That sucks.”
I tweeted about it and escorted two more groups to their tables before wandering off to the back to wipe it off with a warm, wet towel.
Long after the brunch rush was over and the enormous wet spot on my pants had dried clear, I finally got the chance to check my phone: The guitarist from a very talented band had followed me, liked about five of my Tweets, mostly half-naked photos of myself, and sent me a message saying, “Dude, you don’t even know how many times I’ve gone out in public with cum on my pants,” and I am left wondering why must I desperately dig for content now when it used to just fall into my (sticky, tainted) lap? No one direct messages me anymore except random teenage boys from European countries asking me if I am transgendered, to which I always reply “you’re not old enough to suck my big dick,” and will probably one day lose my empire over.
Getting old is a bitch.