Miss Mary Mack used to be a sad sack.
While she played with the boys, the girls conspired behind her back.
To them it wasn't normal for a girl to do boy things.
One morning the girls leader Queenie Jones, removed a pair of scissors from inside her desk and simply cut off Mary's ponytail.
Mary watched as her hair was paraded around the room like a prize possession.
Other kids laughed, but poor Mary was in shock.
It wasn't until she was excused to the little girls room that she caught a glimpse of her new look.
Surprisingly she didn't see that horribly mishapped girl anymore, but the reflection of her inner self. The person she really was.
All this time she hadn't wanted to be wearing dresses and playing with dolls, but relaxing high up in the branches of an oak tree that was planted in her front yard reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
Mary took this tragedy as a triumph and began wearing her brothers clothes.
The other girls were appalled at how easy Mary fit into her new look.
She was once more confronted by Queenie and her followers. This time they were armed with the classes spare acrylic paint.
Doused in various colors, Mary should have run away screaming, but instead saw it as an opportunity to be free. So she grasped Queenie in her arms and kissed her on the cheek whispering something into her ear.
Tears swelled in Queenie's eyes as if a fresh onion were being peeled.
The class went silent, except for the sobbing sounds from Queenie's broken reign.
Mary was finally at peace.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Crystal Ball
Slow dancing, I listen to the wood wick candle until it sizzles to a stop. The needle drops on the vinyl and Tina Turner begins "rolling, rolling, rolling down the river."
I always loved the first half of this song, but loathed the over orchestrated second half. When it comes, I break away from her and turn it off.
While typically this should be romantic, I can't help but feel extremely cliche' and used. She always loved this, but I felt more romantic with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Some of her lipstick has streaked the collar or my two dollar Hanes t-shirt.
So that's how that happens?
I always wondered in media when you see the boring housewife discover the lipstick stained collar of her playboy husband, if it was actually manageable or completely blown out of proportion.
Tomorrow marks our five year anniversary. To her it's another reason to takes lots of pictures, post them on Facebook, and make it more about her than us.
To me, it's just another day reminding me of my choices. I always reflect on our past and think about the bad more than the good. I would never compare it to being trapped, but rather tricked . Before, there was more of an emphasis on our senses. Now it's a struggle to out-do each other. We've become cookie cutter romantics.
She thinks she's being clever by skipping her birth control but every night before bed I lock myself in the bathroom with a Rolling Stone, sit on the can, and count those mother fuckers.
It's bad enough figuring out this world but to teach an offspring, who is from the same flesh and blood, is horror.
When you really think about conception and the birthing process, it can really mess with your head. Ever since I saw a simulated conception video in junior high I become eerily traumatized. Staring at the enlarged sperms weaving toward an egg with their spirally tails whipping to and fro put a wiccan curse on my penis until age 22.
A baby's head piercing through a bloody, gaping, vagina until it's followed by after-birth entrails. The miracle of life. A beautiful moment for families every where. And after the baby is wiped of all the shit and blood you are handed this alien looking object that instantly shrills and tries to get away from you.
I don't get it. Everyone tells me I will once I'm a father, but lucky for me I think before I cum and practice the pull out method.
I always loved the first half of this song, but loathed the over orchestrated second half. When it comes, I break away from her and turn it off.
While typically this should be romantic, I can't help but feel extremely cliche' and used. She always loved this, but I felt more romantic with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Some of her lipstick has streaked the collar or my two dollar Hanes t-shirt.
So that's how that happens?
I always wondered in media when you see the boring housewife discover the lipstick stained collar of her playboy husband, if it was actually manageable or completely blown out of proportion.
Tomorrow marks our five year anniversary. To her it's another reason to takes lots of pictures, post them on Facebook, and make it more about her than us.
To me, it's just another day reminding me of my choices. I always reflect on our past and think about the bad more than the good. I would never compare it to being trapped, but rather tricked . Before, there was more of an emphasis on our senses. Now it's a struggle to out-do each other. We've become cookie cutter romantics.
She thinks she's being clever by skipping her birth control but every night before bed I lock myself in the bathroom with a Rolling Stone, sit on the can, and count those mother fuckers.
It's bad enough figuring out this world but to teach an offspring, who is from the same flesh and blood, is horror.
When you really think about conception and the birthing process, it can really mess with your head. Ever since I saw a simulated conception video in junior high I become eerily traumatized. Staring at the enlarged sperms weaving toward an egg with their spirally tails whipping to and fro put a wiccan curse on my penis until age 22.
A baby's head piercing through a bloody, gaping, vagina until it's followed by after-birth entrails. The miracle of life. A beautiful moment for families every where. And after the baby is wiped of all the shit and blood you are handed this alien looking object that instantly shrills and tries to get away from you.
I don't get it. Everyone tells me I will once I'm a father, but lucky for me I think before I cum and practice the pull out method.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
White
I'm in a room. It's completely white. White walls, white table cloth, white table, white grapes, and white wine. A man's back is to me. All I can see is his golden hair. He is wearing white pants, white shoes, white gloves, a short sleeved white t-shirt and a white apron. He is preparing something while I am strapped down to the table, bound with white twine.
The clock on the wall ticks infrequently like a dying heartbeat that is consistently being revived. A drop of blood drips from the white tile above me and lands directly on my forehead. I open my mouth to scream but my voice is gone.
The man with the golden hair turns his body around but his head stays in place as if breaking his own neck. The white gloves run themselves across my body and down my legs until they stop at my feet.
He removes my shoes, then my pants, then my underwear. Only my t-shirt remains. A white blindfold is placed over my eyes. When it is removed, he is gone and I am free but the white is gone. The room is now blood red with dark undertones.
My clothes are no where to be found. I try and stand, but my legs give out and I am useless. I crawl across the floor looking for a way out but the room is one dimensional . There is no way out of this box.
All at once the room is shifted and I am catapulted toward the ceiling. All the fixtures hang upside down and a record is placed on a turn table. The needles screeches across the vinyl until the same horrific sound repeats over again.
High above me is a window that wasn't there before, but it's too high to reach. lf the room were to switch again, I'd easily reach it but there is no rest for the wicked.
Peering through the window is a bloodshot eye. Its gaze is unlike anything. It peruses the room at lightning speed, occasionally fluttering like a broken bird.
All at once the room shifts me closer to the window, but now that I know what waits for me on the other side I'm afraid. I fight this gravitational pull but I'm eventually shaken like a coin in a shoebox until I land on top of the window. The glass begins to spiderweb under my feet while shards cut my bare feet. The cold surface gives out. I plunge out the window into a dream space where the eye engulfs my essence, chews it up and altogether I no longer exist.
The clock on the wall ticks infrequently like a dying heartbeat that is consistently being revived. A drop of blood drips from the white tile above me and lands directly on my forehead. I open my mouth to scream but my voice is gone.
The man with the golden hair turns his body around but his head stays in place as if breaking his own neck. The white gloves run themselves across my body and down my legs until they stop at my feet.
He removes my shoes, then my pants, then my underwear. Only my t-shirt remains. A white blindfold is placed over my eyes. When it is removed, he is gone and I am free but the white is gone. The room is now blood red with dark undertones.
My clothes are no where to be found. I try and stand, but my legs give out and I am useless. I crawl across the floor looking for a way out but the room is one dimensional . There is no way out of this box.
All at once the room is shifted and I am catapulted toward the ceiling. All the fixtures hang upside down and a record is placed on a turn table. The needles screeches across the vinyl until the same horrific sound repeats over again.
High above me is a window that wasn't there before, but it's too high to reach. lf the room were to switch again, I'd easily reach it but there is no rest for the wicked.
Peering through the window is a bloodshot eye. Its gaze is unlike anything. It peruses the room at lightning speed, occasionally fluttering like a broken bird.
All at once the room shifts me closer to the window, but now that I know what waits for me on the other side I'm afraid. I fight this gravitational pull but I'm eventually shaken like a coin in a shoebox until I land on top of the window. The glass begins to spiderweb under my feet while shards cut my bare feet. The cold surface gives out. I plunge out the window into a dream space where the eye engulfs my essence, chews it up and altogether I no longer exist.
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