Christmas Time Suicide Balloon

Courtesy torgo_x


( INSTEAD OF BULLETS, A PAIR OF FEET KICK OUT FROM THE BARREL )

Bleak Pride

She had the face of someone leaning into a strong wind, just standing next to her car in the lot. I’ve seen that look before, after car accidents or crimes, during the riots, after the big quake. Adversity and shock bring out the nobility in us sometimes. She still had her poise and her beauty, but also a stance that mixed surprise and exhaustion: hey, I’m still alive; how’s that?

The inventory of disasters has gotten pretty long lately: collapsed marriages, life-threatening diseases, terrifying communications from the government, crushed vehicles, major depression. I thought that when I got out of my twenties things might cruise for a while, but I’m still picking shrapnel out of my drink. Of course most of my friends are still in their twenties, so I get chaos by proxy also. It probably doesn’t help that I like artistic types, smokers, slackers, extremely intense people, and everyone who gets left out of the big shiny money show that is Orange County.

Now that I’ve stopped pretending that I’m worth more, and reverted to my avuncular, story-telling, safe friendly substitute behavior, people are more comfortable around me.

I guess I learned my lesson, eh? Maybe we’re all just too wounded to do much for each other.

There's a question of whether there ever was a business there.

Was there a whiteboard and folding chairs? I realized suddenly that I had been very angry for over two hours. Their fries are only good right out of the fryer. She just kept saying “whatever, whatever, whatever” over the things I had to tell her. That place is only good for breakfast food and prostitution.

I passed all the tests except Hazmat. If you knew me at all, you’d know that was the wrong question. She’s like a word-a-day calendar of suck. It took me a while to realize that the so-called job interview was at a Starbucks. You’re scary at that, you’d better stop right away.

They all pulled out this arsenal and said “Come on! We’re going to go over there and fuck that guy up!” but I wouldn’t go. I could sell anyone an appetizer. I don’t want to even fucking think about that guy singing, just don’t talk about it.

The rats are in front of mostly Ibsen. I hadn’t had that feeling at all, not since she died. I can’t imitate him, not right now. This is the last night of our residency! They’d play that same Santana thing with the Matchbox 20 guy on a loop, it drove us all fucking nuts. Later on when he had that skull face it was not a good scene.

Resentful recovering junkie angrily cataloging one book every seven minutes.

I require Marquee N's

For the following sacred purposes:

1) Addition of an N to the many marquees on bars and restaurants advertising their Superbowl parties with the phrase GO PATS! so that they instead read GO PANTS!

2) For the replacement of R with N on many other such signs on restaurants, liquor stores, and other businesses so that they read YOUR SUPER SUNDAY PANTY HEADQUARTERS, SUPERBOWL PANTY BEGINS 9 AM, EVERYTHING FOR SUNDAY’S PANTIES and similar signs.

Thank you.