“I didn’t mean to say that.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“I take it back.”
“Okay.”
“…….That doesn’t really work, does it?”
“nope.”
Given the option, I would rewind this scene to ten minutes previous. I would unpoke at your kneecap and spit out my beer and not say that thing I just said.
It’s floating on our conversation like a fly in the soup and we’re trying to eat around it but it’s making us pretty sick. I really do think I’m going to throw up. I’m definitely going to throw up. Wait, don’t throw up. If you throw up, you’ll have both said the thing and thrown up and that is not going to look good little lady. (little lady?)
You have sent your cocktail straws on a little trip around your glass with the ice as a tour guide and I want to hit you in the face so bad. I think about that all the time, you know? Saying something stupid, sitting quietly for a minute, socking out the witness and running like hell.
You breathe in deep through your nose. I want to breathe in deep through my nose, but I have a terrible cold. You speak
“so…your dad…”
“Right. Dad thought he could outrun the guy, but he couldn’t find a place to put the hen, so he just tucked it under his arm like a football and took off running. My sister had already called the cops by this time, mind you, so when they arrive, they just see this old guy in giant work boots with a chicken tucked under his arm running like hell. So they think Dad is the criminal and take off after him. Now we’ve got 1: the guy. 2: My dad with a chicken tucked under his arm, and 3: The cops chasing after my dad with a chicken under his arm chasing the guy who was trying to get the chicken in the first place. I want to count your teeth with my tongue and then knock them all out with my heel.”
It gets pretty quiet again.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“have the last few months been like this?”
“Not all the time. Sometimes.”
“You’re really pretty angry for being such a generally insensitive person.”
“I wish both my eyes were black and blue.”
“Maybe you should see somebody.”
“I’m going to slam my elbow in a car door.”
“I know a guy you should call.”
“I’m going to shove sixty four crayons up my nose.”
“Starting with the reds?”
“Starting with the reds.”
Posted by Sonya at January 21, 2003 10:18 AMHello Friends.
I do not mean to confuse you. Last night I worked at the mall and did not threaten to push crayons up my nose even once. This is an example of the 'selective' portion of selective non-fiction. Things in this post that are true include:
1: the desire to punch and run after saying something dumb.
2: wishing that both my eyes were black and blue.
3: having a cold.
Everything else is as fake as Maine.
Posted by: sonya at January 21, 2003 03:34 PMor France.
Posted by: freesia at January 21, 2003 04:59 PMThere is NOTHING fake about France. Except Euro-Disneyland. And Tromp l' oele paintings. And a faux-pax. And fake historical plaques on the sides of buildings. And, and -- oh, you're right! The whole country is just one big Fakety McFakester!
Posted by: THE COMTE at January 22, 2003 10:25 AMI think Magritte said it best, when he painted the words: CECI N'EST PAS UNE PIPE.
Posted by: yukino at January 22, 2003 10:48 AM