A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || September 7, 2002 || 9:15 pm

Meat Beat Manifesto falls in perfectly with my state of mind as I pull into the drive. I debate on whether or not to kill the engine because the music is so right, but I have no desire to sit in the driveway, headlights and interiors off, listening to the CD like some forlorn 14-year-old waiting to be able to turn that key and course on down the streets. The crickets pick up the low song, anyway, so I do not regret my decision to turn off the car and head for the door.

I step onto the porch, extracting the housekey from the mere four other keys on my keyring. I have pared them down from thrice that many, and that fact evokes pride, which has a sense of relief in tow.

There is a moth and a junebug on the screen door. A song that I will hopefully someday craft exists around that line….

“Moths are not welcome here,” I say as I smash it to the screen, all flat-thumbed and void of remorse where the moth is concerned. I despise moths, and this has not always been the case. I used to find them graceful and sweet, even if they are stupid and frenetic-seeming. Like an aunt with a honeyed-up disposition (natural and mellow and ever-so-lightly sugared) and an overlarge adam’s apple that is always furiously bobbing; she bakes you cookies and has plain, pretty (however easily-dismissed) things to wear. Since I found out that moths can burrow into an unopened, unmarred bag of rice and leave no telltale signs of entry, I am repulsed. Plain and pretty and seemingly stupid is so glaringly apparent to me now: The unobtrusive purloining is easily acheived when you raise no alarms, no speculation. Not pretty enough to be a threat. Not smart enough to cause damage, but a whole bag of rice is ruined. Who’s the stupid one, after all?

I open the screen, slide the key into the lock and swing open the door to a house devoid of others. Hallelujah. These precious few moments I get in life to reclaim myself keep me from swinging an axe in a public place full of easily-bled bodies. Don’t look so horrified….you have that feeling too, sometimes; your trigger is just different than mine. Go ahead and be honest about it! Throw some scary, truthful words out there for the rest of us to consume! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Enthrall me; c’mon with it….

I shed my clothes in a trail to the kitchen to fill up the water pitcher (pilcher?) until I am only wanton curves encased in underthings. Unencumbered looks good on a person. Drinking a long, satisfying draught of Just Plain Water does, as well.

There is something deep inside that feels like a freshly-picked scab, but I am choosing the path of least resistance: I am going to turn a blind eye (my left) to it. I still know it’s there though, and it reminds me of how I can never conciously choose to forget something. That pisses me off. How does one acquire that trait? Some people are just so fucking good at it. What is missing in me that I cannot manage a little good old-fashioned self-delusion?

I don’t even know what the scab covered and don’t care to examine the thing at present. There’s a source, whether or not the name attached to it has been screamed yet. Ah, well.

Forget I mentioned it. Don’t bogart that truth, my friend.

1 worked it out »

  1. waistdog 9.9.2002

    Uh oh.

    ‘Bammy girl’s gotten into the Snapple again.

    But you used the word THRICE.

    So I’M happy.


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