Sunday, February 20, 2011

Cracktastic Hemingway & Carver Style Vignette

The man in the chicken suit sat down in the cafe and ordered a hot chocolate. Minutes later, a young woman came jogging up to the table. She collapsed to her knees next to the table.

“Why did you steal my pants,” she said.

“For the same reason you do not love me anymore,” said the chicken.

“That’s crazy. I don’t even know you,” she said.

“Do you not,” he said.

“I don’t. Please give me back my pants,” said the young lady.

“I am sorry,” said the chicken, “I no longer have them.”

“What? But you’re holding them right there,” she said. Both young lady and chicken man looked down to see, indeed, a pair of pants in the man’s hands.

“Ah,” said the man. “Would you like them back?”

“No. No, that’s fine. Keep them,” she said. She took the seat across from the chicken. A giant butterfly flew into the room, exploded, and shattered into pieces of blue glass. Neither chicken nor young lady took notice.

“Would you like a hot chocolate?” asked the chicken. The girl nodded, and the chicken man summoned a young barrista. “Mi amiga quiere un chocolate caliente.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,” said the barrista.

“No, I changed my mind. I would like a gin and tonic,” said the young lady.

“We don’t serve alcohol here,” said the barrista.

“Ah, I see. You’re racist,” said the chicken. The barrista gave up and left. Young woman and chicken man were silent. A mime walked in and attempted to order via sign language. Chicken and girl watched as the barrista broke down in tears. They returned to their conversation.

“I hear it’s nice in Prague this time of year,” said the girl. The man nodded.

“You never take me there anymore,” said the chicken.

“Mmhm,” said the girl. She watched as a man took a bowling ball, swallowed it, then promptly regurgitated it. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Indeed.”

“I can keep a bowling ball down much longer than that.”

“I once held a shoe for longer than seventeen seconds.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You never do.”

“I don’t even know you,” said the young lady.

“Exactly,” said the chicken. The girl looked at the chicken for a long moment.

“My legs are cold.”

A man in a skintight gold leotard walked in and stopped next to the chicken man.

“Isn’t there homework you’re supposed to be doing?”

The girl ignored the man in gold and started coloring a napkin with a purple sharpie. She drew a pair of pants and a shirt. As an afterthought, she drew a pair of underwear. She looked out the window. A bucket was beeping at the top of its lungs.

“I should be going. I have things to do,” she said. She stood and walked out of the cafe. The man in the chicken suit and the man in gold watched her go.

“She has very nice accoutrements.”

“It is a bit nippy out.”

“Goodbye.”

Monday, February 7, 2011

It's winter.

Dear Mother Nature,

Look, on an intellectual level, I recognize that yes, it is winter. That means that things such as snow and sniffles and random ice patches just happen. I know this. I do.

Proof that I know winter when I see it.

But, just I can't seem to help the cycle of 'what the hell' that I go through every week. It goes like this:

Sunday: Sleep in. Do not leave house. Spend time doing silly things like reading fanfiction and taking twelve different naps. Generally a day of contentment. Completely ignore ridiculous phenomena such as "weather."
Monday: Wake up, unhappy because I'm awake before the sun. Take one step outside. Realize it's fucking freezing. Wonder, "WHY?" Realize: It's February. Damn.
Tuesday: Snow has had time to melt. I'm happier, because that means I can wear my comfiest shoes. Only, it starts snowing halfway through the day, and by the time I'm leaving school, my footwear and outfit are no longer okay, and in fact anything short of some sort of fur-lined parka monstrosity will leave me cold. Double damn.
Wednesday: Take one step out door. Fall on ass. Curse creatively.
Thursday: Fuck, I hate winter.
Friday: Oh thank god it's Friday. ... maybe winter isn't so bad? ... Nah.
Saturday: Burrow into blankets and conveniently located warm bodies. Forget about this whole goddamn season. Winter? What winter?

This cycle has been repeating itself since about January. By March I will be some sort of rabid beast that roams the land in search of sunlight and dry ground.

So consider this my formally lodged complaint. I object to the existence of winter past the month of December. I object to the freezing cold, the biting wind, the slippery ice, the sniffles, the nosebleeds, and the cabin fever. I'm done.

Best Regards,
Kira

P.S. - I have strep right now, which I totally blame on winter. If I sound cranky, or spiteful, or incoherent, blame it on the fact that I can't swallow a single fucking thing without feeling like I'm shoving a hedgehog down my throat. Ta.