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[Jul. 4th, 2009|02:13 am] |
Tonight I find myself a lot less stressed and considerably happier. I decided to do a bit of writing. Not politics, but a bit of madness. It's been too fucking long. Enjoy. I did.
Know Thyself
She was one of the more oddly-built women I had ever seen. She was meant to be curvy, but somehow got it into her head that she was meant to be skinny. So she starved herself, aerobicized morning, noon, and night, and could obsessively reel off the number of calories, carbs, fats (broken down into saturated and unsaturated) consumed daily, and could recite her Body Mass Index (as of the last check no more than 12 hours ago) down to the 20th decimal place.
Yet despite all this, she could never get rid of her ass or her hips. The rest of her body would have had concentration camp inmates recoiling in horror at her skinniness. But her hips? She was just one of those women with hips designed to churn out children, although she was horrified at the prospect of something growing inside her, adding weight, and no way for her to control it.
To the contrary, the regimen of starving herself only served to make her hips and ass look even more freakishly huge, a twist on the effect by porn producers to cast tiny little girls in their movies so that the guys all look hung like bull moose. But she had never really watched porn, except with that one guy.
The sex held zero interest for her. She was more fascinated with examining each and every girl in painstaking detail, asking that he slow down, pause, and rewind certain parts so that she could peer at the image and even run her hand across the screen, tracing out the lines of the starlet's body, which at the time was also home to cocks in various orifices. But her date didn't know that- he thought he had a live one who was even more perverted than him, a prospect he found incredibly sexy yet also very frightening in a "is she one of those rare ax murderer chicks who will fuck me and then kill me?" way. Did it matter? He was going to get laid. As he watched her, he undid his pants, slid them off, and he sat back on the couch, cock in hand, waiting expectantly.
So it came as a considerable shock to his system that when she had finished her examinations of one particular scene, she turned and had a look at horror on her face. "Oh shit, I blew it", he thought. He started to say something- he wasn't sure what he was going to say. Did Hallmark make a card for this kind of thing? He started to make some kind of vague apologetic noise again but she stopped him.
"Don't look at me. Please. I'm a cow. I'm fat. I'll never be pretty like.... them." She pointed, her arm trembling, at the screen at the image of two minuscule nymphs both stuffed with 3 times their body weight in cocks yet still managed to look perfect and thin, and then she burst into hysterical tears. The raging hard-on in his hand was quickly reduced to jelly. It was just his damn luck. All he wanted was a little tail, found this chick at the bar, chatted her up, was oddly turned on by her rather large ass, and she agreed to go back to his place where he was going to get some. Instead, she's a nut case.
Realizing he had no hopes of getting laid and that he could instead easily end up with a situation involving large quantities of blood- his or hers, he went into survival mode and quickly ran a mental checklist of every sharp object in his apartment and its location so that if she made a move in ones' direction, he could jump up and literally cock-block her.
Much to his relief, she just grabbed her pocketbook and rushed out of his apartment, wailing hysterically.
He was afraid to move. Some dark reptilian corner of his brain that was perpetually tickled into awakening by the excessive amounts of cocaine cut with toilet bowl cleaner he snorted back in the 80s convinced him that she would detect any movement or any brain wave activity and this would draw her back into the apartment and he most definitely didn't want that.
No, he closed his eyes and tried to blank out his mind as much as possible, held his breath, and hoped it was enough.
And he fell asleep like that.
Now, a somewhat relevant note here. He lived in an apartment building and his unit was located on the first floor directly across from the elevator.
When his neighbors got off the elevator the next morning to go to work, they couldn't help but notice the wide-open door and their neighbor, the one who wears the ugly shirts and will bend the ear or anyone who even says hello to him of his salad days in the '80s when he owned a really sweet Camaro, passed out on his couch in one of his signature ugly shirts and no pants, his hand cupped around nutsack. The more adventurous ones who dared to look further into the apartment saw the paused porn scene of the two suspiciously young-looking girls with all holes occupied that remained frozen on (and would burn into) his brand-new 48" plasma. The combination of both discouraged all from venturing further to see if he was just passed out or dead. If he was passed out, he'd wake up, and if he was dead, he'd still be dead no matter what they did. And no way were they going to touch his door and leave fingerprints, just in case he was dead and the police became involved.
It was in this manner of neighborly love that his door remained open for all to see until he woke up at 10am, long after every other resident of the building had long since passed his door on the way to their daily doings. It was even the one day of the month when Mrs. Peterson, the 90 year old down the hall, was taken out to breakfast by her grandson and his wife and they too saw it and froze in horror. Mrs. Peterson adjusted her glasses and peered. "Hrummmph, I've seen much bigger. Danny, your grandfather.... "
"Grandma!" he wailed in utter horror, in an attempt to stop her. But she continued, describing his grandfather's genitals in painstaking detail. His grandfather's been dead for 30 years and his grandmother senile the past 15 and didn't even know who he was most of the time, so this photographic recall of his grandfather's shlong was even more remarkable if ultimately requiring several bottles of fine Scotch in a failed attempt to bleach the image out of his brain.
Meanwhile, in another corner of hell, she could never get the image of those two tiny perfect little cock-stuffed creatures out of her head, and every time she caught a glimpse of herself, was filled with a self-loathing beyond measure.
It was into this that I stumbled. Gotta hand it to me for having an uncanny sense of finding the most psychologically damaged woman within a hundred mile radius and honing right in on them like a laser-guided missile. It's a rather refined sense and one that is utterly inexplicable, akin to that of those creatures who every 14 years return to the same seemingly utter nondescript spot, takes a moment to contemplate it while Marlin Perkins and his trusty cameraman Jim document the occasion, and then wanders off for another 14 years.
I met her at a party. I went to grab a drink and some food and she was standing there, staring at the food table. I was intrigued. Was she an artist admiring the plethora of colors of the food and its arrangement? Or maybe a chef and trying to divine the recipes of the caterers.
It is my own particular blindness that I never even considered that she was just batshit crazy. If I knew then what I know now, I would have known that she was standing there calculating what and how much she could eat and triangulating the position of the bathroom in case she accidentally ate too much and needed to purge before any of the offending badness could be absorbed by her body.
And even if I did know, would it have stopped me from going up to her, tapping her on her shoulder, and introducing myself?
Nope, not at all. |
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