Don’t you wish that after gorging yourself with a frothy red velvet concrete shake (decked out with rainbow sprinkles, cake bits, and whipped cream) that your butt would boat instead of your stomach???
Does anybody else remember watching Liberty Kids through the static on free cable?
I remember finding free, D-list, subtitled anime on one of the weird, grungy back channels. I was so excited!
I’d found futuristic cartoon people who might curse and do things only suitable for adult audiences; like fire their assault rifles.
Being a poor kid had it’s fun idiosyncrasies.
You know how it is when you’re that weirdo girl who’s always at your local, magical makeup department store? Yeah, your that girl who basically lives there.
Today, you’re on the hunt for a lip plumper to rival botox, when suddenly, you need help. The lip fattener isn’t where it’s supposed to be (oh pooh). You approach a sales associate when it happens.
Somewhere between here and the shimmering aisles of peptide imbued lip gloss, false lashes, and super matte lippies you dropped your heart. You feel like a secondhand generic Barbie looking at gorgeous gay Ken.
Sales guy has beautiful honey browns rimmed in mascaraed lashes, and a full nude pout. The innocence and softness in his face makes you melt.
You know there is a rift called sexual orientation between you two, but when you talk about makeup, there’s this spark. You kind of get each other, and it’s a little magical– like Angelina Jolie’s mouth, or Beyonce’s everything.
You know it’s a hell of a long shot, but you already see yourself getting married to him at your pansexual wedding. Now you just need to get him to say yes to coffee and pedi’s.
One of my coworkers, who is a very funny lady, is a lead teacher at the preschool where I work.
She is a tiny woman with a Rapunzel like sheath of raven mermaid hair, saucer eyes that breathe fire, and enough height to make her forehead touch my nose, haha.
Today, this tiny fairy made the subject of her ire, a lost little boy. During writing and dictation, The Lost One dawdled at his desk, writing a shortlist of letter K’s as if they were contenders for a prize.
When her gaze rested on his paperwork, with all the K’s numbered and bulleted, she said:
“1K, 2K, 3K, 4K we are not in a race. Like he is sponsoring or something. 1K, 2K…”
He was supposed to be writing about insects.
It took me a while to realize what she’d said. I couldn’t believe the quick blade of her wit. Poor thing, he was blindsided.
He was like a runner grounded by a clip right in the Achilles tendon by a ferocious competitor; The Lost One was left with all those K’s ahead of him.
Turns out he couldn’t see the board, so I dictated to him personally, and he churned out some very good work. Although, I think I like his first paper better. 😂
Outside, tendrils of Cupid’s voluptuous pixie haircut flutter in the sea breeze. Her silver hair is thick; its gossamer strands glitter spectacularly. Her eyes are yellow like the honeyed moon.
Between her silver eyebrows, there is a tiny purple heart; this symbol represents her special, karmic powers: her faculty to inspire true love in human souls.
Cupid looks at the shorefront real estate before her. Sun glories the acres of sprawling golf greens; bees make sticky gold in the rose arbor; there are stables, a track, and a regal indoor pool: a menagerie of institutional decadence opens up here, like an oyster on the verge of the green sea.
Cupid adjusts her yellow plaid mini skirt, which has hiked itself up her long, smooth thighs. She pulls her asymmetrical Rolling Stones crop top down over her pierced navel. She takes a shuddering breath, her larynx high, her mouth dry.
She toys with the aglets on her thigh high, lace up Chuck Taylor’s; she fingers the cloth buttons on her outsized, beatnik sweater.
Cupid licks her flushed lips. There, a little sex, she thinks. Now I’m ready for this big, rich High School.
When Cupid walks through the gilded doors of Bellmont Cristo High, a steamy, cool goth smacks her on the butt; the goth chick is very Victoria’s Secret meets Twilight, and wears a dominatrix bustier. She gives Cupid a flirtatious wink, and Cupid’s face turns sunset orange.
Cupid didn’t realize she was in Babylon.
Cupid decides she needs to toughen up, and tries to regain her composure. However, she breaks into a cold sweat when she rounds the corner of the main corridor.
In the middle of the hallway, is a boy. He is digging through a large cafeteria trashcan, collecting French fries. He deposits his findings into a large pile on a newspaper.
When he has a considerable cache of garbage fries, he eats them. Another young man squats down next to him, taking a breathy toke on a burning stub in his hand.
Cupid squints; she realizes that this friend of Garbage Fry’s is smoking grass. Not weed. Actual. Real. Live. Grass.
All of the gods and Zeus hate me! Forging eternal love will be impossible in this zoo. This is an impossible assignment. At this rate, I’ll never get back to Olympus!
Cupid feels hopeless. And then she sees Tori.
Oh. This I can work with.
A little boy (ahem, monster) with a crimped, golden-brown afro stands at the commode. Everything is going according to plan.
His pants are down. Check. His pee is in the toilet. Check. Tiny cream colored hands are reaching into the toilet to play in pee-pee water. Check. Wait!
“Noooooooooooooerrahh! Camden! Don’t do that!”
Camden turns his lash-rimmed baby browns on me to say, “You scared me.” Aw. Of course, I’m sorry for yodeling at him like a hoodlum, but–Tiny hands. In toilet. Almost.
Twenty of his hobbit-like friends have used the same toilet (with bad aim I might add). The toilet’s ablutionary appeal is lost on me.
I guess he was mesmerized by the flushing toilet’s hypnotic whirlpool. I guess I overreacted (you: pushaw, like, yeah. He’s two. Me: okay, but it’s still a toilet. Like, have you seen what goes in it? You: *silence that indicates the reply, “duh.”*)
After all, toilets can be pretty cool–and filthy. It all boils down to this: everything is clean when you’re two, and the toilet water is clear (or maybe a trifle yellow).
Ah, yes. The mood is right. The lights are burning irresistibly bright (insomnia is hot!); quasi-clean garments lounge in my bedside chair like a toothsome angel–an angel pretending to be sweaty clothes (sweaty hotness!); and on the tube, a cocktail of TV commercials does a seductive tengo: nothing says “Bow chicka wow wow” like a voice-over about laxatives. Can you say “Hot!” My night is shaping up to look like 50 shades…50 shades of bow chicka wow. Baby.
All jokes aside, I actually am having a pretty good night. It’s Thursday, and tomorrow’s Friday. Friday’s are always good days (at least from a conceptual standpoint they are. I mean, who doesn’t like the weekend? Who doesn’t like lawn gnomes? Those two questions totally corroborate why Fridays are inherently good.)
I’ve watched a few winsomely corny sitcoms, eaten some ice-cream, and done my afro up in an enormous poof. I’m in a zen place. I’m in a happy place.
All I need now is: 1.) the babe-acious Mr. Ree (ha ha) to realize that he’s a fool for not being the Bee Gee’s bananas for me; 2.) for 1 million dollars to fall from the sky right now, like seriously; and 3.) for star dust to coat everything I touch so I can make oodles of wishes, even on toilets.
Ha ha, goodnight.