mucousal musings

 "Sometimes I get this ball of snot..." Carl started.  At the sound of "ball of snot" my attention forcefully faded as my eyes and head lowered slowly to the warm, comforting light of my smartphone.  "LISTEN!"  he shouted, as he noticed my attention shrinking away from the mention of mucous.  His voice was forceful, demanding the attention his phlegm so rightly deserved.  Startled, disgruntled, I looked up with a timid stare, dreading the gag-inducing tale he was about to tell.  "Sometimes" he continued slowly, savoring the full attention his foot-stomping outcry had garnered, "Sometimes, I get this ball of gooey yellow snot and..."

fake fans

 You can tell who the real fans are at metal concerts because they are able to match their headbanging with the seemingly sudden time signature or tempo changes.  "Look at that idiot, he was still headbanging at 120bpm two beats into the new measure when the tempo had clearly changed to 180bpm!  Any REAL fan would know that the tempo changes after he sings 'eat my bloody corpse'!" they might think to themselves self-righteously, as a snotty little smirk grows across their faces.  The pop equivalent to this is catching someone awkwardly trying to mouth the words to a song they don't know, whilst visible beads of sweat form at their crown.   "Please god!" they implore "Don't let Britney notice that I don't know the lyrics of her song!  Oh WHY did I have to elbow my way up to the front??  WHY!?"

Stomper

Here's a little thing I wrote about my stompy neighbor

Stomper

Your heavy footfalls belie your slight frame,

You're a stag wearing the severed feet of an elephant.

Your invisible girth boomerangs your non-existent weight into each step,

creating a vertical locomotion powered by testosterone and gravity.

Your walk is a dramatic, self important stomping,

A rushed and intent gait from one side of your apartment to the other,

boney heels like warriors, driving themselves into the loosened linoleum.

You pause at one end to insolently throw down the toilet lid,

making a loud, dry thud that echoes through the pipes connecting our bathrooms.

Every noise you make is pointed and overtly masculine,

shaking the floors with irritating proof of your virility.

It makes me clench my fists until my knuckles lose their color,

my stomach cramps with irritation.

Why can't you walk like me,

a slow meandering directionless pace,

with your heels gently following your toes to seem invisible

to those who listen and those who don't.

a slice of life from an airport terminal

A woman dressed in turquoise scrubs slinks out of a dark corner, shaded between the wall and a giant topless pillar that appears to have no practical function except to take up space in an awkwardly placed part of the waiting room.  The uniformed woman glides over to a piece of trash lying at the feet of a rotund woman.  The trash collector crouches down and picks up the empty bottle while looking upward reprimandingly, eyes filled with disgust, as if to say "you're welcome you slob".  She lovingly places the abandoned juice bottle into her half full black garbage bag and makes a b-line for the next piece of garbage across the boarding area, dragging the bag across the floor dauntingly, like a Steven King ax murderer with his ax.

The rotund woman takes no notice of the sharp glare, and continues her current activity: calling everyone she knows to complain about her 30 minute delay, peppering her complaints with juvenile swear words, primarily "arsch".  She looks to be 30, but speaks like she's 13.  "I'll never fly again!" She repeats dramatically to all three people on her call list.  Last on her call list is her beau, whom she repeats her story to listlessly between bites of a Snickers bar.  All of this complaining has exhausted her.  She hangs up, slouches in her seat, and poutingly devours another Snickers bar, this time in silence.

on hold

I'm on hold with Ikea customer service for the second time this week.  That's two more times than I'd like.  There are only two songs that play interchangeably while you're on hold.  One is a peppy little piano jaunt that brings to mind naughty kittens prancing about the kitchen counters, tracking flour where it shouldn't be with their tiny paws.

The other song is a jazzy low key romantic song, with an out of breath man whisper-singing "there's nothing I wouldn't do for you".  I roll my eyes at these lyrics and think about how perversely wrong of a representation of Ikea's customer service this is.  Before I know it, it's back to the tune of kittens awkwardly toddling on kitchen countertops.  I sigh and patiently wait for my turn to complain.

what the fuck am I wearing

 

Do you ever forget what you’re wearing and then, stimulated by the gentle caress of satin or worn fleece (you’re not sure which) you ask yourself, “wait, what am I wearing?” You try to recall your morning routine in which you haphazardly dressed yourself in a waning Ambien haze, your mind occupied with obsessing over that awkward dream where your boobs kept falling out of your ill-fitting swimsuit.

“Wait, now really, what the fuck am I wearing??” You look down and see a loose, yet clingy clown-suit that can’t seem to contain your regular-sized breasts. You sigh and think “Oh, so this is just another dream” as screaming monkeys dressed as English royalty fly in through your window.