Horrid Little Girl

Do you know what happens when you watch bits and pieces of Hustle and Flow, Stoned, Debbie Does Dallas II, and a long commercial for The Tudors right before bed?

You might dream that you are a queen.  And you husband is a pimp, complete with a pregnant black girlfriend.  The pregnant girlfriend drowns in a pool, while you watch, in your jewel encrusted gown and part of you feels sad for her but the other part doesn’t care because now your sexy black pimp king is all yours.  Later, when you are having anal sex with the king, and others are recording it, you might somehow manage to get pregnant yourself. 

Sometimes I don’t even want to get our of bed.  Why bother when what happens in your head is so much more fun that anything in the real world?

Well, not exactly.

But I did get to watch it happen.  And I convinced myself I was helping.  

I was at the hospital all day.  I had to leave for a little while and almost didn’t make it back in time.  I got there just as her pain was getting worse.  It’s hard to watch a loved one in pain like that.  Especially when you are so excited and not feeling the slightest discomfort yourself.  But I tried to be comforting.  I’m sure I wasn’t, but I tried. 

We all wanted to stay in the room for the whole thing, but I promised the dad oral sex so I was one of the two allowed.  I tried to take it seriously because it was such a solemn occasion.  I couldn’t help leaning down in a quiet moment, though, and whispering, “I can see your pussy!”. 

It was amazing, and beautiful, and awe inspiring.  I got some crazy, bloody, gory pictures.  Not anything you’d want in the scrapbook, but still really impressive.  I’ll take them up to her today when I visit. I’ll hold him again.  He’ll look into my eyes again, like that wise ole man he is, and I’ll wonder again if maybe he does know the secret of the universe, because how else can you explain that expression on his face and in those deep eyes?

Sometimes I like being sick.  Like when my mom makes me chicken noodle soup.  Or I snuggle on the couch with some saltines and ginger ale.  What I really like is when I’m so tired and sore, and I take a shot of Nyqil, and all of a sudden sleep just descends like a veil.  I like that sleep.  I think I’d like heroin.  I think that if I know I’m dying, I’ll start doing heroin.  Cause then it wont matter if I get hooked or not.  Can you smoke heroin, or take a pill?  I dont think I’d be good with the snorting or injecting.  I’m kind of a pussy that way.

I think it’s my first.  It kind of caught the light weird when I took a peek in the mirror after my pee.  I yanked it out to get a better look.  It’s half white and half brown.  I never knew that hairs lost color, I thought they were just born grey.  It’s also not as smooth as my other hair, it’s a little kinky.  You know, like me.

I taped it to the wall at work so I can look at it whenever I want.  It’s pretty.  I wonder when I’ll get more.  When do grey pubes start?  Do you get grey hairs everywhere?  My friend told me she gets one grey eyebrow hair.  That’s a little fucked up.  My mom gets a patch in the front of her head.  That’s cool.  I’d let it grow long so I could have a nice skunk trail.  Like that chick on What Not to Wear.

First bursitis and now this.  I don’t know that I like this whole getting old shit. 

It’s not a secret that I am rather clumsy.  Normally, most adults don’t fall.  I fall all the time.  I also bump into things.  It’s like I forget how big my body is or something and slam into things that I think are further away.  The other night I was walking up the stairs…wait, I didn’t actually walk up the stairs.  I tripped on the first stair and never made it upstairs.  I banged my toes into the wooden step and slammed my hand into the handrail, cutting my fingers, and also threw out my already hurting shoulder.  Then I walked around the house for a few minutes to try and shake it off.  I didnt cry, though.

The next day I decided I needed to walk on the treadmill because it has been a really long time since I got my fat ass up there.  Everything was going all right for about 3 minutes.  Then my toes started to hurt.  Every time my toes hit the top of my shoe, it hurt.  Now, let’s back track a little.  Last summer, walking around the zoo one day my feet began to hurt very badly.  I thought I was being a wimp and kept pushing on.  They continued to hurt and a few days later they turned blackish and fell off.  The nails, not the toes.  Apparently, the repeated pressure of my ill fitting shoes was similiar to a heavy blow and bruised my poor toesies.  They still havent recovered.  I may have to get a fake nail when I go swimming next month.

So, as you can imagine, when I felt that similiar pain, I got concerned.  I took off my shoes and kept walking.  Funny thing about shoes, they’re rather cushiony.  Walking on a treadmill without them isnt comfortable.  I started jogging, thinking that would be better.  I couldnt step on my heels, so I jogged on my tippy toes.  Maybe some people can jog on their tip toes.  I don’t think I’m one of those people.  I jogged for maybe 2 minutes, and my poor calves are screaming with every step two days later.  I hate being a fat out of shape loser with fucked up toes. 

Today after work my calves were still hurting but my toes were feeling better.  But then there was ice on the ground and I slid, slamming my foot into the curb.  So, right back where we started.