Drop 120: My Week

poop cabinMonday was quiet. I made a sneezer salad for lunch – you know, I always aim to sneeze. I went for a drink and had an argument with a friend. I said it was possible for the best driver in the world to have an accident. He said it wasn’t. Neither could win; it was like playing solitaire with an incomplete deck. I walked home. On the way, I slipped down a hill: just one of the unpleasant slide effects of shoes with poor souls.

On Tuesday, I saw an ex girlfriend in the supermarket fondling cabbage. That sentence could be read two ways, so to be clear: she was the one fondling the cabbage. I don’t do that sort of thing, sticking with nobler produce to fiddle with and finger. We went to a super special place with donuts and hung out for a while. We were into each other but we couldn’t have sex since she had a least infection. I didn’t get why it was a big deal. I figured it was a minor thing at most.

On Wednesday I got a radical new haircut and no one noticed – weird that people aren’t closely following my hairstyles. That evening, angry about my anonymity, I bought an intravenous flytrap, stuck it in my arm and sat back on my footstool to ride out the buzz. Sobering up, I spent a while online. Lots of spam. The most impressive subject line: Robotic Surgery Lawsuit. Have you or anyone you know ever had it? Cause we can help you sue, if you have. Interesting, though I find the simple, direct emails like Slutfinder, and Localshag have a certain succinct charm that can’t be beat.

not lupusThursday was a bad day. I hid under the covers all morning, worrying about the blood in my phlegm till I remembered I’d had beetroot juice for breakfast. I went out to clear my bed. ‘You can get it cheaper in Australia,’ I heard, passing two people on the sidewalk. I wondered what it might be. I ate dinner alone in a new restaurant. Sign read: Proudly serving whole brain breads! I passed, opting for the pasta, then listened to the conversations scurrying about around me: ‘I’ve had mantis shrimp maybe a dozen times, but I’ve never had the opportunity to eat a pregnant female.’

Friday, I got a high paying job as the CEO of a large chain of command. Coming back from the interview I went to the station to take the train but it seemed to never come. I read through the paper while I waited. A captivating headline on page C5: One in four Flemish Belgians thinks their partner stinks. I waited an hour until a nice lady with big biceps came over and said: ‘You do know this is a tranny station, don’t you?’ I took a cab.

Saturday, I stopped by a friend to check my email cause my service has been disgruntled for over a day. ‘Go right ahead,’ he said. ‘Laptop’s in the kitchen.’ I didn’t want to stay in there long. He has bread bugs, and he’s got them bad. He’d left a Google page up with an open search for ‘vagina in Latvian.’ I didn’t ask, opening a new window. She’d sent me an email. She was staying at a nearby hotel. ‘I just got back, she wrote. ‘Call me in my womb.’ So I did and went over. Warm in there. Her problem had cleared up so we got sexy. Later she admitted that she’d thought about work the entire time. Well, for a short while she’d also thought about them cloning a woolly mammoth soon. That was when she’d shouted ‘YES! YES! YES! That’s so fucking awesome!’

Sunday I just wanted to chill and watch movies. Mongolian Death Worm, Fragrant Night Vampire, and Robot Geisha were my choices on cable, so I immediately ordered toilet pay per view – a messy channel – but it’s always done the job. In the afternoon, I baked a cake. Unfortunately I misread the recipe and used Yeats, instead of yeast to make it rise. It was a wonderfully poetic, articulate cake, an epic cake, but in the end, it was hard to digest.

By EM Vireo

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