Devil Rum
Have I blogged about the guy with braces yet? Leg braces? I feel so bad hating him, but man . . . of all the cubicle gawkers, he's the worst. He doesn't even look in, but he passes by, arms wiggling, braces shaking, almost falling onto my fucking lap. Sometimes it's so bad that he sways in here and I get afraid that the braces are just gonna snap and I'm gonna be buried under 300 pounds of man. I just want to kick out the supports, let gravity have what it wants. "Give in!"
The number of disabled or otherwise non-traditional people here is quite high:
one guy with braces
one woman with flippers instead of hands
one morbidly obese woman
one woman who has a shaved head, wears men's suits, and obviously speaks too low for her voice, like a kid playing grownup on stage
one woman with a hunchback
one guy whose…I'm not sure what's wrong with him. His torso is too big…it's like you took the torse off an XL doll and sewed it onto a M doll's legs. And it's all like…no contours. It's like it's carved of wood, just a big block of it. And this guy will stare you down, as if to challenge you to stare. In all situations. It's really most disconcerting in the bathroom.
one building manager with a cane, very boss hawg. She spilled her coffee outside my cubicle once and radio'd one of her janitor lackeys to get here on the double.
And then there are the old women with hot legs. I don't even know what that's about.
My brain is broken today. F-ing broken. I blame the devil rum. Curse you, Paramount! You loom large in the abyss beneath the sink, your plastic bulk shiny against the muted grays of pipes and that old wrench I stole from my father's van. And you last forever, because you come in that jug for just thirteen dollars.
You know, devil rum, I love getting drunk on you. You're completely different from Bacardi; you twang the mouth more, zap nerve endings, jangle fillings. Your taste is like lightning that's been consumed and filtered out as urine. There's the aroma of rot on you that mixes so well with coke.
But there's nostalgia too. You and I were great friends in college! Yes! Watching Cowboy Bebop and writing blog entries at 3 am. And it takes me back to taste you now.
If only you weren't such a bitch the morning after.
The number of disabled or otherwise non-traditional people here is quite high:
one guy with braces
one woman with flippers instead of hands
one morbidly obese woman
one woman who has a shaved head, wears men's suits, and obviously speaks too low for her voice, like a kid playing grownup on stage
one woman with a hunchback
one guy whose…I'm not sure what's wrong with him. His torso is too big…it's like you took the torse off an XL doll and sewed it onto a M doll's legs. And it's all like…no contours. It's like it's carved of wood, just a big block of it. And this guy will stare you down, as if to challenge you to stare. In all situations. It's really most disconcerting in the bathroom.
one building manager with a cane, very boss hawg. She spilled her coffee outside my cubicle once and radio'd one of her janitor lackeys to get here on the double.
And then there are the old women with hot legs. I don't even know what that's about.
My brain is broken today. F-ing broken. I blame the devil rum. Curse you, Paramount! You loom large in the abyss beneath the sink, your plastic bulk shiny against the muted grays of pipes and that old wrench I stole from my father's van. And you last forever, because you come in that jug for just thirteen dollars.
You know, devil rum, I love getting drunk on you. You're completely different from Bacardi; you twang the mouth more, zap nerve endings, jangle fillings. Your taste is like lightning that's been consumed and filtered out as urine. There's the aroma of rot on you that mixes so well with coke.
But there's nostalgia too. You and I were great friends in college! Yes! Watching Cowboy Bebop and writing blog entries at 3 am. And it takes me back to taste you now.
If only you weren't such a bitch the morning after.
0 Replies:
Post a Comment
<< Home