If
there is one thing I am attracted to in a woman it is when she uses a Bumpit in
her hair. I once worked at
a very high profile jewelry store in a commercial mall where I frequently racked
up millions of dollars in sales – earning a commission on every penny sold
which I would immediately turn around and invest in low risk mutual funds in
wise anticipation of the market dipping. Each day, while walking through the
mall on the way to the jewelry store I would pass a Mexican restaurant which
employed literally thousands of tempestuous waitresses. During this moment in my daily sojourn
I would turn my head in their direction and walk using only my peripheral
vision. I would pay
particular attention to a delightful and full-figured hostess (as full as a ham
on rye sandwich stuffed with delicious meat and dripping condiments) who
happened to sport a Bumpit. I
do not believe she ever caught my lecherous leers and likely knew nothing about
the rich array of fantasy she inspired. I
imagined climbing her Bumpit enhanced hair like a mountain, only to lose my
foot on some uncertain strands and fall screaming to my death. I imagined her lowering her head and charging
me like a bull and crushing my stomach with the iron like strength of her
Bumpit where I would then subsequently die of internal bleeding and in extreme
pain. I imagined a swarm of
enraged killer wasps flying out from her hive like hair and stinging me millions
of times until those wonderful final, feverish moments.
Day
after day I would stare into that glorious restaurant, imagining what I would
say to her if given even half the chance. I wanted to reach my hand out with the
promise of taking her away from all the sweaty resignation of common, everyday
life. In that scenario I
liked to imagine her pulling out a heretofore hidden machete (perhaps carefully
stocked away inside her towering Bumpit hair) and swiftly chopping off my arm
at the elbow Jason Vorhees style. After
years of careful consideration I finally decided I would walk right up to her
and say, “Hi, is that a Bumpit in your hair or are you just happy to see
me?” I said this out loud
to myself in a quiet and red colored room to get a feel for how the words
sounded when making contact with the air. The cleverness of this line caused me
to erupt in childlike fits of laughter and the joy was so great that I was only
able to quash my enthusiasm by taking a sharp and sterilized Exacto knife
[which I’d pilfered from a local middle school science lab after doing a
presentation there on monotremes (egg-laying mammals) – a subject which I
became something of an expert on after a lengthy study abroad and following
several papers which were published in widely respected periodicals Scientific American and Popular Science] and making three 5.9
inch cuts along the inside of my left thigh. I then doused the cuts in rubbing
alcohol and sat on my bed staring at a hole in the wall where I was convinced
lived a man who had seven kids, each of them telling me to commit unspeakable
acts. When I finally worked
up the courage to step foot inside that restaurant and speak to this woman I
was crushed to find she had quit. For
the following eleven weeks I ate 9 double cheeseburgers a day in order to cope
with the loss. At the end
of each day I would look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and tell
myself it was all going to be okay and one day I would be able to love
again.
There
is a big ugly hole in things and I do not know how to fix it. This cannot be what was
intended. I once called it
a social disease (cleverly quoting from Bon Jovi) and was told I sounded like a
Republican. What is this
horrifyingly empty life we create for ourselves? Every single day I have at least one
moment which borders on sheer panic as I confront things so profoundly empty
and repulsive. Some of
these things want to reach out and touch me. Some of them even have intimate
knowledge of me and are so blind they actually believe there is a point. There is nothing inside any of them
and sometimes I have to wonder if they are real or simply a terrifying illusion
from a tortured dreamer’s mind. In
those instances I am not sure who exactly the dreamer is…but I think I know
where he or she or it may be living. Oh
god please get away please don’t touch me don’t come near me why do you talk to
me why do they all talk to me how can they not see how disgusting it is how
wrong all of it is why all this waste and emptiness how we can go on thinking
that everything is okay fuck it is so repulsive it is so fucking repulsive
please don’t let me see it anymore oh god what is happening all the thoughts
inside my head are crashing against one another I can’t think at all I can’t
see anything except horrible ugly fucking faces and one massive creeping soul
that eats every fucking thing exists only to eat and hate and fuck endless
fucking oh please oh god oh please what is happening to me
At
long last the trailer for The Strange
Colour of Your Body’s Tears was released yesterday. I watched it 267 times
while at work and an additional 471 times while relaxing in my posh flat and
sipping on a glass of Pinot Noir. I
have often found myself wishing my life would begin to mimic the plot outline
for a Giallo but so far this has not come to pass. Needless to say this is going to be
one of those movies I look forward to almost as much as my own demise and the
months will pass like millennia until I am finally privileged to view whatever
limited release it may have. Additionally,
since the waiting and anticipation has been so intense – and coupled with my
passion for the horror genre, Giallos and anything with a surrealist kinetic
style – I will surely convince myself I love this film regardless of how truly
amazing or truly awful it is. I
wish I had a future, anywhere.
It’s
that time of year again ladies and germs! The time has come where I prepare a
list of my favorite movies, music and reads of two-zero-thirteen. My lists are going to set the whole
town on fire! Hold on to
your asses because these next few weeks are going to see a lot of great updates
and hog-wrangling excitement! It’s
going to be the literary equivalent of someone shooting their spunk into your
eye and then slapping you across the face with a lightly seasoned poached
salmon. Can anyone guess
right now what my favorite movie of ’13 is? I will give you all a hint: it could
be a cute and clever movie about slugs that enter a racing competition. Still can’t figure it out? Don’t worry, in time all will be
revealed. However I can for
sure tell you that The Strange Colour of
Your Body’s Tears will definitely be on my list of the best movies of
2014! Already a freebie and
the year hasn’t even started yet!
That’s
right, you keep pumping em' out and we’ll keep paying for em'.
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