Jeff Phillips's Blog, page 10
December 8, 2011
Coat Funk
I have a theory.
Certainly city buses and trains tend to have some bodily odors wafting about. But it increases exponentially as winter happens. Most likely people don't ever wash their winter coats. Last year's funk comes out to play. I know I'm guilty of it. I recently noticed my coat smelled like shit and I couldn't remember ever washing it. I've had it at least 6 years. I have since washed it and feel good about it. I feel like I fulfilled a civic duty. I know the economy is bad and coats take up room in washers and dryers, hogging real estate from other urgent clothes, but I hope more people decide its time to throw their coats in the hamper on laundry day.
This morning I was all disoriented when I woke up. I thought it was saturday. My girlfriend was up and atom in the kitchen. All showered, dressed. I was like "why the hell you up so early?" She was just like "you up or going back to bed!" I said "goin' back to bed!" I went to pee and while I was peeing I realized it was Thursday and my alarm would be going off any minute so I couldn't actually go back to bed.
Then on the train to work I realized my smelly coat theory. I hope they all find some extra quarters in their couch. We'll worry about mitten funk some other time.
Certainly city buses and trains tend to have some bodily odors wafting about. But it increases exponentially as winter happens. Most likely people don't ever wash their winter coats. Last year's funk comes out to play. I know I'm guilty of it. I recently noticed my coat smelled like shit and I couldn't remember ever washing it. I've had it at least 6 years. I have since washed it and feel good about it. I feel like I fulfilled a civic duty. I know the economy is bad and coats take up room in washers and dryers, hogging real estate from other urgent clothes, but I hope more people decide its time to throw their coats in the hamper on laundry day.
This morning I was all disoriented when I woke up. I thought it was saturday. My girlfriend was up and atom in the kitchen. All showered, dressed. I was like "why the hell you up so early?" She was just like "you up or going back to bed!" I said "goin' back to bed!" I went to pee and while I was peeing I realized it was Thursday and my alarm would be going off any minute so I couldn't actually go back to bed.
Then on the train to work I realized my smelly coat theory. I hope they all find some extra quarters in their couch. We'll worry about mitten funk some other time.
December 7, 2011
Daniel
Today I had lunch at Subway. A shitload of teenagers came in, on their off-campus lunch break. Most had their own lunch boxes, or pizza from the place a few storefronts down. Clearly outside food to be munched on in Subway as though it were some cafeteria. None of the Subway staff said anything to them. A juice box was spill near the cuff of my sleeve.
One teenager was eating a slice of pizza. Another one came in, referred to as Daniel by some girls, reached over to grab the slice mid mouth.
Teenager: Naw man, this is my pizza.Daniel: Give it to me!Teenager: Naw!Daniel: Remember that time you asked me for a bitch and I hooked you up!
Then Daniel and the other teenager started wrestle. Some girls laughed. Daniel tried to splash them with streaming fountain soda. The girls shrieked "Daniel! Stop!"
Subway staff went about their business as usual.
Daniel wrestled with other teenager again and knocked his styro-foam pizza box to the floor. Then he left. Through the window I could see him run out into the street to pick up a discarded Subway beverage cup, still half full, and proceed to chase after some other girls who were hanging out down the street.
One teenager was eating a slice of pizza. Another one came in, referred to as Daniel by some girls, reached over to grab the slice mid mouth.
Teenager: Naw man, this is my pizza.Daniel: Give it to me!Teenager: Naw!Daniel: Remember that time you asked me for a bitch and I hooked you up!
Then Daniel and the other teenager started wrestle. Some girls laughed. Daniel tried to splash them with streaming fountain soda. The girls shrieked "Daniel! Stop!"
Subway staff went about their business as usual.
Daniel wrestled with other teenager again and knocked his styro-foam pizza box to the floor. Then he left. Through the window I could see him run out into the street to pick up a discarded Subway beverage cup, still half full, and proceed to chase after some other girls who were hanging out down the street.
December 5, 2011
Deleted Prose 1
The following is from a section of my (in revision process) novel manuscript. I've been trimming the fat. Chopping out stuff that doesn't fit. This particular item I felt messed with the logic of the first section as far as the narrator's perspective goes. But I still enjoy the prose here. So I thought I'd share. The manuscript is continuing to come along nicely. The text is getting stronger. Top heaviness reduced.
The gray steel spanned great lengths. Conveyer platforms churned up magical boxes, fat slabs of black fiber glass encasing what is most important; the screen! An army, inciters of vision pumped down the flattened rubber track, running them to the next arm that finished the job and sped them onto yet another. If the arm had conscience it would revel in the glory of finishing the job.
My father, Bruno, walked the concrete between these rows of conveyors and arms and boxes with glossy screen. He managed the inspectors and technicians, ensuring that the scheduled output of boxes, which will soon flash visions, was up to par. It was indeed. The newest box was flatter than the norm and quite vibrant in comparison to more decayed models. His toe tapped a tube; glass rolling. He bent and picked it up. He was not quite sure what it was doing on the floor, all by its lonesome. This wasn't a good sign. If one had hopped off the assembly and went loosey goosey from the unit…this was a bad sign and SOMETHING was not up to par as he had expected upon first glance. He recognized the possibility that sure, it was most likely one box with a missing tube and it would account for only one faulty television abstaining from colorful display. But if more boxes began to share the same problem and more cathode ray tubes began to join in the free radical summersault on the oily pavement… then the accrued return, shipping, and replacement production would be the skinning of his ass. They had a deadline to meet and a nation of department chains to stock before the Holidays, and this being September, well ho! Three months is right around the corner. Mush, mush you automated arms!
But if you're going to do a job right, do it right the first time around, and Goddamn if more cathode ray tubes escape the cage of glass. Then the evidence of his knowledge on this possibility – the security feed that ran to another screen (not manufactured by this factory, believe it or not) would indict his professionalism and pinpoint him as the culprit that neglected the prevention of a costly recall, during the red periods after the fucking Holidays! Fucking lose – lose situation! Pull the plug and halt the assembly!
He hustled off towards the window that shined its fluorescence, bouncing light from a mountain of spreadsheets stacked on top of his desk. The paper still clung to the side strip with holes that gripped the perforated river of paper through the chunk-car-chunk of an ink ribbon rub down, and beside this hub where he could trace the success of his management through numbers, was the yellow lever that stopped it all and made the white and grey arms take a hissing break.
The gears hummed a low note and the conveyors slowed and stopped and peace was too much to ask for – an arm held still the glass pane a centimeter from the skeletal encasement of the box and a visceral static did spark and pop and blew the glass into shards. The shards carried the microcosm of lightning storm on its back until it slapped into the hot wires, the hot wires that talked to the arms and gave it the day's direction. The heat jumpstarted a black simmer and burst of red-then quickly to a blue flame which hustled down the length of a friction rubbed conveyor. The rubber did not hinder the conduction of the dance party of angry static and electron charges. The whole of the place, every arm and box exploded and the symphony of flame and smoke and debris consumed the body of my ducking father, who pulled down his face and gripped the tip of his hard hat. This is the machine's consequence for a moment taken to reflect upon, not participate in production. The shockwaves of angry televisions put a sinking dent in the Holiday inventory and made a victim of my father.
The gray steel spanned great lengths. Conveyer platforms churned up magical boxes, fat slabs of black fiber glass encasing what is most important; the screen! An army, inciters of vision pumped down the flattened rubber track, running them to the next arm that finished the job and sped them onto yet another. If the arm had conscience it would revel in the glory of finishing the job.
My father, Bruno, walked the concrete between these rows of conveyors and arms and boxes with glossy screen. He managed the inspectors and technicians, ensuring that the scheduled output of boxes, which will soon flash visions, was up to par. It was indeed. The newest box was flatter than the norm and quite vibrant in comparison to more decayed models. His toe tapped a tube; glass rolling. He bent and picked it up. He was not quite sure what it was doing on the floor, all by its lonesome. This wasn't a good sign. If one had hopped off the assembly and went loosey goosey from the unit…this was a bad sign and SOMETHING was not up to par as he had expected upon first glance. He recognized the possibility that sure, it was most likely one box with a missing tube and it would account for only one faulty television abstaining from colorful display. But if more boxes began to share the same problem and more cathode ray tubes began to join in the free radical summersault on the oily pavement… then the accrued return, shipping, and replacement production would be the skinning of his ass. They had a deadline to meet and a nation of department chains to stock before the Holidays, and this being September, well ho! Three months is right around the corner. Mush, mush you automated arms!
But if you're going to do a job right, do it right the first time around, and Goddamn if more cathode ray tubes escape the cage of glass. Then the evidence of his knowledge on this possibility – the security feed that ran to another screen (not manufactured by this factory, believe it or not) would indict his professionalism and pinpoint him as the culprit that neglected the prevention of a costly recall, during the red periods after the fucking Holidays! Fucking lose – lose situation! Pull the plug and halt the assembly!
He hustled off towards the window that shined its fluorescence, bouncing light from a mountain of spreadsheets stacked on top of his desk. The paper still clung to the side strip with holes that gripped the perforated river of paper through the chunk-car-chunk of an ink ribbon rub down, and beside this hub where he could trace the success of his management through numbers, was the yellow lever that stopped it all and made the white and grey arms take a hissing break.
The gears hummed a low note and the conveyors slowed and stopped and peace was too much to ask for – an arm held still the glass pane a centimeter from the skeletal encasement of the box and a visceral static did spark and pop and blew the glass into shards. The shards carried the microcosm of lightning storm on its back until it slapped into the hot wires, the hot wires that talked to the arms and gave it the day's direction. The heat jumpstarted a black simmer and burst of red-then quickly to a blue flame which hustled down the length of a friction rubbed conveyor. The rubber did not hinder the conduction of the dance party of angry static and electron charges. The whole of the place, every arm and box exploded and the symphony of flame and smoke and debris consumed the body of my ducking father, who pulled down his face and gripped the tip of his hard hat. This is the machine's consequence for a moment taken to reflect upon, not participate in production. The shockwaves of angry televisions put a sinking dent in the Holiday inventory and made a victim of my father.
December 4, 2011
Rock Opera for the Digesting
Last night we went to a 2nd Thanksgiving dinner party thrown by my girlfriend's good group of friends. After a week of digesting turkey & an assortment of leftover carbs, we did it again. A good problem to have no doubt. Any food, an overwhelming amount of feast food, is a good food, nothing to complain about. I will say though my body has been "de-energized" since digging in a little over a week ago into the traditional foodstuffs. Some talk about the fact of tryptophan making us sleepy as only a myth, but some recent scientific studies talk on tryptophan being enhanced by the sheer amount of carbs in the typical Thanksgiving feast, thus making such a meal more coma inducing than a turkey sandwich at the local deli. Whatever the science may be, the sheer amount and variety of food items is certainly causing a load on the digestive tract. Particularly this variety. You have thick potatoes, green beans, french fried onions, turkey meat, gravy fat, stuffing, cranberry sauce, sugary pie, etc, all of which digest at different rates. And being eaten in conjunction with one another makes for a strange fight to sneak ahead of the acid line to be broken down at it's ideal speed. Yet the pie you ate at the end of the meal, breaks down quicker, due to the sugars, than the meat hunks ahead, so the sugar sits there for a bit, gets impatient. This big belly party exhausts the guts.
A colleague of mine once brought up the diet theory of eating all food groups separate from one another. So you eat your meats in one meal, wait a good couple of hours, then eat your pasta. Then a few hours later eat your fruit. This allows for an ease in digestive flow. And it makes sense. You don't want that fruit to rot while it waits behind the sirloin steak. I've yet to commit to such an eating standard. And clearly Thanksgiving breaks the rules of this diet. Though I'm thankful to be privileged enough to enjoy pounds of food and indigestion. Again, these are good problems to have.
After the massive feast last night, I was quick to desire bed when we got home. I drifted into intense dreams derived from the images of outer space my girlfriend and I have been subjecting ourselves to in watching The History Channel's: The Universe in our Blockbuster queue. One of these dreams started out with swimming through space, hopping from asteroid to asteroid, until I swam from the depths of this black vacuum to crawl up the shores of some European country, looked perhaps a bit like Portugal. The outer space behind was indeed just some big black ocean waters. Once on the shore I stepped on a snail, and this I could feel in my dream, a vivid slime ooze between my toes. I wound up starting my own small business refurbishing apartments. During the course of one project I kept ordering food from a diner. The owner himself delivered the food and we developed a good friendship. After this project I decided I was going to swim back out into space, and so I went to say good bye to the diner owner. I stopped in at the diner and he laughed at me, telling me I couldn't go! He was retiring and liked my business sense and wanted me to take over! I resisted, but then he asked me to follow him into the kitchen. He led me through the kitchen, into another larger, seemingly unused kitchen. Gates made of jagged spikes closed off one section of it. He told me to wait to the side. He wanted to show me something special locked inside a secret tomb, but he had to go in and disarm the booby traps first. I watched him dodge swinging blades and dropping spikes to disappear through a sliding glass door, down a long dark tunnel. He was gone awhile. Then he returned, on fire, playing the electric guitar, singing! I wasn't sure if this was his doomed body from the detriment of a booby trap, or if this is what he wanted to show me. But the rest of this dream took on the feel of a rock opera.
A colleague of mine once brought up the diet theory of eating all food groups separate from one another. So you eat your meats in one meal, wait a good couple of hours, then eat your pasta. Then a few hours later eat your fruit. This allows for an ease in digestive flow. And it makes sense. You don't want that fruit to rot while it waits behind the sirloin steak. I've yet to commit to such an eating standard. And clearly Thanksgiving breaks the rules of this diet. Though I'm thankful to be privileged enough to enjoy pounds of food and indigestion. Again, these are good problems to have.
After the massive feast last night, I was quick to desire bed when we got home. I drifted into intense dreams derived from the images of outer space my girlfriend and I have been subjecting ourselves to in watching The History Channel's: The Universe in our Blockbuster queue. One of these dreams started out with swimming through space, hopping from asteroid to asteroid, until I swam from the depths of this black vacuum to crawl up the shores of some European country, looked perhaps a bit like Portugal. The outer space behind was indeed just some big black ocean waters. Once on the shore I stepped on a snail, and this I could feel in my dream, a vivid slime ooze between my toes. I wound up starting my own small business refurbishing apartments. During the course of one project I kept ordering food from a diner. The owner himself delivered the food and we developed a good friendship. After this project I decided I was going to swim back out into space, and so I went to say good bye to the diner owner. I stopped in at the diner and he laughed at me, telling me I couldn't go! He was retiring and liked my business sense and wanted me to take over! I resisted, but then he asked me to follow him into the kitchen. He led me through the kitchen, into another larger, seemingly unused kitchen. Gates made of jagged spikes closed off one section of it. He told me to wait to the side. He wanted to show me something special locked inside a secret tomb, but he had to go in and disarm the booby traps first. I watched him dodge swinging blades and dropping spikes to disappear through a sliding glass door, down a long dark tunnel. He was gone awhile. Then he returned, on fire, playing the electric guitar, singing! I wasn't sure if this was his doomed body from the detriment of a booby trap, or if this is what he wanted to show me. But the rest of this dream took on the feel of a rock opera.
November 29, 2011
Breaded Control
Last night I dreamt it was my brother's birthday. A gift he received was a video game remote control, deep fried and breaded. One had to eat their way to its use.
This would be the most American invention of all time.
This would be the most American invention of all time.
November 26, 2011
Fattening
I am fattening myself up for the winter with meat and carbs and piles of books to rip up the mind until it bleeds and pools of platelets create a layer between my skin and the cold air. 
November 16, 2011
Blood Blister Be-Gone
Today I finally got rid of a blood blister/scab I've had for about two weeks. I got it from home brewing. There was this bottle from my last batch I hadn't fully cleaned out, at least not very well. Caked mold remained at the bottom from the remaining mash dregs. Thus I soaked it in hot soapy water for hours and then proceeded to thrash more hot liquid around to really break it up. I succeeded. But it resulted in the aforementioned blood blister between my thumb and forefinger. I was beginning to worry about my body's ability to heal it was taking so long. It looked almost like a mole. I was starting to get used to it. I secretly referred to it as my power mole.
It went down the shower drain. A beetle can maybe play hockey with it.
I don't think my brain synapses function correctly first thing in the morning. I kept getting weird phrases in my head while doing my morning, get-ready-for-the-day rituals, like "animal cat punches" and "sudden fritter freeze." And they kept looping in my mind like a scratched to hell piece of vinyl spinning.
And then I'd picture the blood blister dissolving slowly.
On my train commute to work I overheard two older, white men. Wearing nice suits. Both balding. One was skinny, with tight cheek bones, the other was fat and pouty. The fat, pouty one kept muttering "stupid democrats, goddamn liberals, god I hate them." Whenever the skinny one would respond to his droopy grievances the train would rattle loudly and I couldn't hear the specifics. I imagined the pouty guy calling me a young stupid punk and then imagined myself shouting back "you don't know me, what makes you think you know me! I just have a stupid grin on my face because my blood blister finally healed! Cannot I not feel jacked about small victories!"
It went down the shower drain. A beetle can maybe play hockey with it.
I don't think my brain synapses function correctly first thing in the morning. I kept getting weird phrases in my head while doing my morning, get-ready-for-the-day rituals, like "animal cat punches" and "sudden fritter freeze." And they kept looping in my mind like a scratched to hell piece of vinyl spinning.
And then I'd picture the blood blister dissolving slowly.
On my train commute to work I overheard two older, white men. Wearing nice suits. Both balding. One was skinny, with tight cheek bones, the other was fat and pouty. The fat, pouty one kept muttering "stupid democrats, goddamn liberals, god I hate them." Whenever the skinny one would respond to his droopy grievances the train would rattle loudly and I couldn't hear the specifics. I imagined the pouty guy calling me a young stupid punk and then imagined myself shouting back "you don't know me, what makes you think you know me! I just have a stupid grin on my face because my blood blister finally healed! Cannot I not feel jacked about small victories!"
November 15, 2011
I Plan on Firing Anxiety (Here is How it Will Go Down)
With the seasonal temperature shifts, I sometimes find myself feeling an explicable anxiety, a gnawing, ill-informed nervousness that follows me like I'm a heat lamp. I'm thinking of getting rough with it, cutting this anxiety loose, like in those sad boy loves animal movies where circumstances force him to tell it to scram despite every bone in his body hating the act of severance with the confused creature.
Well, I wouldn't feel so bad about telling anxiety to get lost. I just have to sit down and do it. I want to be a creature of comfort.
-----
Me: Mr. Anxiety, please take a seat.
Anxiety: I'm very busy...
Me: I'm not asking.
Anxiety: Fine, man.
Me: Listen, there's no easy way to put this, I've lost a lot of sleep over this, but we all deserve a peace of mind-
Anxiety: Cut the bullshit.
Me: Funny way to put it, that's what I'm asking you to do!
Anxiety: I don't like jokes, sir.
Me: You were assigned to me at birth with the intent to protect me by alerting me to real predatory dangers. Things change, the world we operate in develops down strange paths, and we take on new challenges, complicated challenges.
Anxiety: I haven't taken my break yet today...
Me: You'll get a nice break. Fact is you work too hard and you've hijacked your purpose. You're sounding little alarms all over the place, distracting my departments, dissolving all real resolve of mission, scattering priorities, depleting adrenal resources.
Anxiety: I work harder than anyone else!
Me: Yet you're ignorant to the fact that you've derailed everyone else's ability to work! You're holding this operation back!
Anxiety: I'm sorry you're not pleased with my performance.
Me: Worrying hasn't been an effective strategy. I'm sorry, Mr. Anxiety, but I'm letting you go.
Anxiety: Fuck you man! What will I do now?
Me: Evolve. Your severence is this shot of whiskey. Here. Drink. Relax.
Anxiety takes the shot, glares at me, and gives me the middle finger.
Me: Leave the door open on your way out. I like the breeze.
Fade to Black.
Well, I wouldn't feel so bad about telling anxiety to get lost. I just have to sit down and do it. I want to be a creature of comfort.
-----
Me: Mr. Anxiety, please take a seat.
Anxiety: I'm very busy...
Me: I'm not asking.
Anxiety: Fine, man.
Me: Listen, there's no easy way to put this, I've lost a lot of sleep over this, but we all deserve a peace of mind-
Anxiety: Cut the bullshit.
Me: Funny way to put it, that's what I'm asking you to do!
Anxiety: I don't like jokes, sir.
Me: You were assigned to me at birth with the intent to protect me by alerting me to real predatory dangers. Things change, the world we operate in develops down strange paths, and we take on new challenges, complicated challenges.
Anxiety: I haven't taken my break yet today...
Me: You'll get a nice break. Fact is you work too hard and you've hijacked your purpose. You're sounding little alarms all over the place, distracting my departments, dissolving all real resolve of mission, scattering priorities, depleting adrenal resources.
Anxiety: I work harder than anyone else!
Me: Yet you're ignorant to the fact that you've derailed everyone else's ability to work! You're holding this operation back!
Anxiety: I'm sorry you're not pleased with my performance.
Me: Worrying hasn't been an effective strategy. I'm sorry, Mr. Anxiety, but I'm letting you go.
Anxiety: Fuck you man! What will I do now?
Me: Evolve. Your severence is this shot of whiskey. Here. Drink. Relax.
Anxiety takes the shot, glares at me, and gives me the middle finger.
Me: Leave the door open on your way out. I like the breeze.
Fade to Black.
The Smart Toilet & Shitty Thoughts
Allow me to talk number 2 for a moment. I bet some day will come the invention of the "smart toilet." It will read back to you calculations about density, mass. It will tell you things about your health and bowel movements based on pH calculations and how it corresponds with what you had previously entered into the menu database for the meals you have eaten. It will tell you when that pizza you had on Friday is fully digested.
Because let's all face it, it's human instinct to take a look at what we've expelled from our bodies.
I sometimes stop and think about what I've contributed to the sewer system over the course of the day. And that if we faced apocalypse and running water had stopped, convenience and grocery stores ransacked for bottled water, rivers dangerous due to people taking armed territory at sections, the sewer with it's dark river below us may become a last resort. I sometimes think about such a thing, and what sort of contraption I would manufacture with my own two hands and found objects to clean the water and purify it. It would perhaps take a lot of strainers and boiling to re-allocate steam, to more strainers and boiling to really get the shit out of it and avoid a stomach ache.
The sewer is a resource. And if never touched, 1 million years from now, what will have become of all of the human waste, dish water, detergent, bleach, cleaning supplies, Drano, dead skin cells, soap, shampoo, toothpaste, vomit, blood, fingernails, hair, motor oil, and a variety of other items, after having sloshed around and drifted down as gunk lining the bottom of the sewer floor. Will it become its own type of rock, caked layers pressed, that can be burned for fuel?
Sometimes I think these thoughts. Not as a fixation, just drifting what ifs in my mind at some points of the day. Shit worth thinking. Because shit is always happening all over the globe, slipping away below us to a story we rarely bother ourselves to imagine because it may be grotesque.
Because let's all face it, it's human instinct to take a look at what we've expelled from our bodies.
I sometimes stop and think about what I've contributed to the sewer system over the course of the day. And that if we faced apocalypse and running water had stopped, convenience and grocery stores ransacked for bottled water, rivers dangerous due to people taking armed territory at sections, the sewer with it's dark river below us may become a last resort. I sometimes think about such a thing, and what sort of contraption I would manufacture with my own two hands and found objects to clean the water and purify it. It would perhaps take a lot of strainers and boiling to re-allocate steam, to more strainers and boiling to really get the shit out of it and avoid a stomach ache.
The sewer is a resource. And if never touched, 1 million years from now, what will have become of all of the human waste, dish water, detergent, bleach, cleaning supplies, Drano, dead skin cells, soap, shampoo, toothpaste, vomit, blood, fingernails, hair, motor oil, and a variety of other items, after having sloshed around and drifted down as gunk lining the bottom of the sewer floor. Will it become its own type of rock, caked layers pressed, that can be burned for fuel?
Sometimes I think these thoughts. Not as a fixation, just drifting what ifs in my mind at some points of the day. Shit worth thinking. Because shit is always happening all over the globe, slipping away below us to a story we rarely bother ourselves to imagine because it may be grotesque.
November 13, 2011
Vacuum Man Gets Vocal
I've been thinking about this guy I saw the other day at the California Blue Line stop, at the tail end of the day's home rush hour. A line had formed to go down the stairs from the platform. A guy with long, flowing black hair came trotting up, swinging a vacuum cleaner by the handle slightly as he moved. The people descending stopped off to the side the stairs, as far over as they could, to allow him up. The guy became angered by this accommodation and began yelling at them as he ascended "Ahhhh, fuck you, get out of here YOU! Get out of here!" When he finally got to the top, the line began to move again. The guy yelled at some one waiting for a Northbound train, under the heat lamps. "You too! Fuck you!" Some people across the platform started laughing at him and he yelled something un-intelligible, like "aaghjyoouyuyauuuyuAHAHHGSuiu YEah yeah fuck you ahsuujkkuujfuck!"
I was at the end of the line going down. I had the urge to mess with him. I wanted to tell him to "suck his own dick off with that vacuum." Just to rile him up. But I didn't. That wouldn't have been a level headed thing to do. It would have been mean. I could have wound up with a vacuum cleaner base fracturing my skull. And I thank my inhibitions for showing up to work at that moment.
Now if I had been on the other side of the platform, with the electrified track space between us, a taunting remark on an irrational man telling people to go fuck themselves would have been a fun thing to fling.
I was at the end of the line going down. I had the urge to mess with him. I wanted to tell him to "suck his own dick off with that vacuum." Just to rile him up. But I didn't. That wouldn't have been a level headed thing to do. It would have been mean. I could have wound up with a vacuum cleaner base fracturing my skull. And I thank my inhibitions for showing up to work at that moment.
Now if I had been on the other side of the platform, with the electrified track space between us, a taunting remark on an irrational man telling people to go fuck themselves would have been a fun thing to fling.
