Showing posts with label awkardness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label awkardness. Show all posts

Sunday, May 26, 2013

Feeling Sorry For Yourself And Other People Is Stupid (How I Spent My Saturday Night: 5/25/13)



I soldered my lips together and cut my hands off with a rusty machete that had black electrical tape wrapped around the handle. Then I picked up some drugs, spat a used needle out the window on my drive home, and listened to it skip off the pavement. It was Memorial Day weekend, and I made it home without getting arrested; phantom hands and fingers gripped the steering wheel.

A replay of the Champions League Final was on my aunt's flat screen tv, and my ass sank into the couch.

At the same time, Ryan, someone who was on the same swim team as me in high school, and now hangs out with/does drugs/gets pissed at me from time to time for various reason (some known, some not), is cooking a steak for himself and a girl that works at Logan's Steak House with Shannon, this girl I know. He left the army (honorably), and moved back into his parents' house, which is a couple miles down the road from my aunt's.

We were over his house last night with Carrie and Shannon because his parents were out of town. He pounded two rib eyes with a meat mallet, put them in a Pyrex dish, marinated them, covered the dish in plastic wrap, and put it in fridge, while Shannon argued on the phone with her off and on girlfriend. Shannon got off the phone, and we went into his living room and Carrie put on a movie.

Shannon and Carrie were telling Ryan how excited they were for his date and dug for the details of what he had planned, and Ryan explained. Shannon and Carrie thought it was cute, a homecooked dinner for two, before the three of them went over the ways in which Ryan could fuck it up and how to avoid it. I nodded off on the couch. Carrie woke me up when it was time to leave. Ryan gave Carrie and Shannon a fist bump and a hug; I got a wave and a cold look—I figured he got pissed because I was nodding off, which made it seem like I didn't care.

Sitting on the couch, I thought about the word, “cute,” and why I don’t care about other people’s happiness.

Sitting on the couch, I wondered why I cared about people who live hundreds of miles away from me that I've never met in person.

And those people are scratching my limbic system with fingernails made out dull razorblades, then kissing the wound to make me feel better.

Cracked lips puckered up, I scraped together an answer that I really can’t explain.

I turned the tv off by hitting the power button on the remote with my big toe.

Spacing out to the electric lullabies of household appliances.

Not hanging out with anyone.

Thinking about a specific individual that I've never met in person who genuinely cares about me.

Smiling the entire time, as I bled out.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Terrible? Sometimes.


Recently, I have been contemplating sawing my head off, and replacing it with the head of a mascot from a sports franchise or a big business corporation, or a cartoon puppet from a children's show so more people will like/believe me when  I'm apologizing for being a terrible person, sometimes.

I probably say the words, "I'm sorry ____" or "I apologize_____" at least 100 times a day.

Because I'm a terrible person who ate a box of locally made chocolate peanut butter candies in the shapes of apples + A Weekender sized bag of locally made BBQ potato chips. I bought them for the greatest/coolest person in the world, who is currently living in Washington this summer. I ate them because I was stoned and hungry at 4 in the morning, and there was nothing to eat in my aunt's house. I also got her a t-shirt and wrote her a letter. (I didn't eat it either of themI wasn't that stonedBut I'm lazy and wasted too much time and too much money doing meaningless bullshit with people I kind of care about (okay not really), and now she's gone, and coming back home, and might not like me as much before she left because I'm a TERRIBLE PERSON who is unreliable piece of shit. Sometimes. It's a proven fact.

I'm the worst.

Multiply anything by zero and you get zero.

And I'm sorry for the times I was late in the past.  (#101)

And for eating all your peanut butter chocolates and BBQ chips. (#102)

And never sending them out in the package with your letter and t-shirt before you left. (#103)

And for driving by roadkill without even acknowledging its existence. (#104) 

And for not erasing best friends who only give a shit about themselves sooner. (#105)

And for not attemping to cure AIDS or cancer. (#106)

And for being a TERRIBLE PERSON sometimes. (#107)

I want to bake myself into a tray of cookies, which resemble nothing in particular so people that care about me will be able to hold me gently in their moist palms before tearing me apart with bleached mouths, and digesting me with alcohol stained stomachs. Afterwards, rinsing the parts of me, which got stuck in between teeth out with mouthwash. The last of my sugary shapelessness dissolving or being spit and sucked down a drain because I am a MOTHERFUCKING success. Self-proclaimed. BFA: Class of 2011. Smoking bowls at work in the cooler with a coworker who is a former crack addict; her sixteen year old daughter, our lookout.

I will enjoy baking in the oven. Watching the people I know talk in the kitchen. Not understanding words, nonplussed expression of boredom with occasional fits of laughter. I will enjoy it because at least this time, I don't have to awkwardly stare around the room at people and assault them with funny faces. I have nothing to say. Or no one to say anything to. Listening to the mechanical sound of convection humming from the oven as I turn a golden brown. It's comfortable. I guess.

Except for the plethora of frowns reflecting off the windows. And the melodramatic buzz of text messages broadcasting unhappiness throughout the room. 

I can make coffee, but I don't think that will improve the situation.

Fuck, I'm a horrible host, but I'm trying my best. Making eye contact. Smiling. Asking, "Is everyone is okay?" Mingling. And looking concerned.

But I don't clean. My room is filled with a random assortment of garbage, loose body hair, and boxes of shit that have yet to be unpacked. 

And with five people in here it's cramped.

I'm sorry, I am terrible person sometimes, but you'll have to adjust.

Because I really don't think I'm that bad.

I don't have cable.

I do have Netflix, an iPod + iPod boom box dock, and a N64 and some weed.

(I guess it's all relative.)

But please don't forget  me. 

Because everyone is a terrible person sometimes. 

I'm alright with that even though my fingers are hidden and crossed.

And I will try as hard as I can never to forget about any of you.





Friday, June 29, 2012

Nouns of Assemblage: Cryptozoology


Earlier this year, I read Housefire Publishing's Nouns of Assemblage on my lunch at work. It is an amazing collection of short stories written by various authors about various topics. Some of which include deer with fangs, a lawyer floating in the middle of a pond, a choice between whether or not to explore a cave, a warning about the platypus, a culture of bacteria, a skulk of foxes. Each story's title is a noun of assemblage, which is a word used to represent a collection of things, in this case animals.

This is an awsome book, which everyone should pick up since it is showcasing some of the best contemporary writing out there from the minds of xTx, J.A. Tyler, Cameron Pierce, Bradley Sands, etcetera, but I think the creators of this awesome collection missed out on a whole class of mysterious animals, which are rarely seen. I have started working on including these animals so they don't feel left out, sad, and/or awkward.

The first story is a phenomena of plesiosaurs.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Bring the Violence, I’ve Just Converted to Cannibalism

Walking up the driveway you will notice that the front door is open, which is never a good sign.
And the garage door stays shut when you press the grey button on your remote control because the power is cut.

I’m inside. Sitting in the dark on your recliner. Wearing a zombie mask. Fake blood. Missing teeth. Sores all over the face. And glow in the dark eyes.
The mask won Boy Scout Troop 194’s scariest costume of the year in 1999.
No, it’s not Halloween.
No, I’m not an actual zombie.
But I bumped bath salts earlier tonight.
And watched a horror movie marathon.
Which is why I’m dressed this way for the occasion.

When you decide to walk through the front door, you will see the shimmer of silver steel in the streetlight coming through the window. And a note saying, “The only way to kill a zombie is to destroy the head. Destroy the head. Even if it’s someone you know.”
You will round the corner into the living room with the steel in hand. The only objects you will be able to see are two neon green orbs floating in the darkness. They will stare back at you and shrug their shoulders. Because they are telling you I don’t give a shit.
I hope you scatter my thoughts into the creases of leather so my leaking head can ruin your carpet.
If my leaking head doesn’t ruin your carpet, I will rip your chest open like an eight year old assaulting wrapping paper, and throw different body parts into the air like confetti.
Because I know the fucked up shit I am capable of. 
And this is a better option than silently walking away from each other in two opposite directions.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

UMMMM… (This is going to be awkward)

I wouldn’t have texted you but I’m desperate.
I need you to do me a solid, and help me figure out whether or not I am alive. Because people have been making funny faces at me recently, and it’s not because they think I’m unique or interesting—I’m not.
You need to take a sharp object (a razorblade, a broken beer bottle, a scalpel, switchblade, exacto knife, or samurai sword are some suggestions) and split the skin in the back, front, or whatever. And dig in! Elbow deep!  And start rearranging the furniture, and feeling around. Let your fingertips go WILD!
You got to really get in there because I’m not sure what you’re looking for.
Proof. I guess.
Like a plastic wristwatch. Ordered from a cereal box with 10 UPC codes. That’s still ticking.
Or a hotplate glowing red and orange.
Or a limited edition, first generation, copy of a self-help book written by grocery store romance novel writers, printed in 1979, still in mint condition.
Or a used silicone implant of a famous celebrity, still covered in dried out bits of coveted DNA.
Or a pod of unhatched spider eggs.
I don’t really know, but you’ll have to be thorough and have a steel stomach, because it’s going to be messy, and heartbreaking. And I don’t want you puking your guts into me—there’s already enough shit inside of me + the smell of puke makes me nauseous.
You’ll need a sandwich bag to catch my ghost because it will want to move out after you’re done remodeling my insides. 
(I started believing in that paranormal shit after watching a show about it on tv where three dudes go to abandoned buildings and detect ghosts with their arm hair.)
You can do whatever you want with it after you’re done.
Put it between two pieces of bread, make a sandwich, and take it to work for lunch—it’s already in the proper bag, and I’m sure it will taste good.
Perserve it in formaldehyde.
Or just throw it out.
Either way, you’ll be compensated with vicodin and a gram of weed.
And don’t worry about the body; it’s being shipped to Nepal for a sky burial.
Please get back to me.
 And thanks.
 Thanks again.
(Even though you haven’t helped or done anything yet.)

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

prematurely giving birth behind bars while witnessing something that has never been seen before (This Could Lead to Divorce)

My bra feels like a piano wire.
Tangling around a neck.
Becoming taught.
Rubbing jugular skin raw.

It feels like I’m starting to hallucinate:

Your eyes are onions
And I’m pulling thin translucent rings
Out of your pupils
Because I hate the taste
And the smell .

That’s why I got all teary eyed
When I threw them in the garbage

*

The water broke. And he put me in handcuffs. Tightening  them way too tight. And carefully shoved me into the backseat of the car.

An amalgamation of fluids
Churning
Rustling back and forth
Against my belly button
Feels like indigestion
And I’ve taken recommended dosage of antacids
For a woman of my size
But it’s not helping.
And there’s no stopping it now:
PAIN.
“That’s it push!”
Latex gloves molesting my expanding vagina.
PAIN.
Relief?
PAIN.
Life.
I vomit out a fully formed child covered in a viscous film of half digested mash potatoes, shreds of buffalo chicken, specks of lettuce, and pieces of my personality saturated in stomach acid.
You smile behind your handheld video camera. Documenting every moment as carefully as an anthropologist in an unexplored region of the world.  Not missing a millisecond. Not paying attention. And you never held my hand or helped me breath.
“THIS HAS TO BE SOME KIND OF WORLD RECORD! WOW! AND I GOT IT ALL ON TAPE! THIS IS GOING TO BE AN INTERNET SENSATION FOR SURE!”
The doctor tries to hand him a sterile pair of scissors, but he was uploading the video on his smart phone. I grab the scalpel on the tray next to my bed and slice through the umbilical cord like it was a piece of paper.
PAIN.
“I still can’t believe I fucking got that on tape. What a fucking miracle. Right?”
The doctor tilts his grey hair down and exclaims, “Congratulations, it’s a girl.”
I readjust my body so that my back is representing my place in the conversation. It was terror twilight and rain was lapping against the pane of the hospital window before it dropped to the pavement below.
He inches closer to the doctor, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I mean, have you ever seen or heard of anything happening like that in your entire life?”
“No.”
“So this is the first documented case?”
“Yes.”
He rubs the outside his index finger over the scrubble on his chin. BINGO!
“You know this is going to make all of us fucking rich. Rich and famous! The rest of our lives our set my friend.”
He, the doctors, and the nurses, joined hands and began dancing and jumping up and down because they just won the lottery.
They put my baby in a plastic box, and left it as is because they couldn’t tamper with the evidence. It can’t be contaminated.
My husband posts the video on the internet, and it receives 50,000 views in the first three hours.
The best doctors from around the world are flying in on their private planes in order to study this strange reproductive phenomenon.
I think about the future: hours of medical tests and studies, syndicate talk shows, movie documentaries, parenthood, control, responsibilities, PTA meetings, and where I fit into all of this.
It was all his idea. And so far, he’s only touched his daughter through the movie screen.
“We are RICH! HONEY! RICH! RICH! RICH! No more office job. I can finally get whatever I want. And so could you!”
I peek over at our daughter motionless in the hodge-podge of fluids it was birthed in.
She isn’t crying, yet.
But I am, because I never wanted her.  And I never wanted to get rich. I wanted an abortion.
“I’m sorry, but she will be a carrot for the rest of her life,” the doctor said popping the cork off a champagne bottle. Foam raining down the plastic sides of the life support machine.
They go outside, imagining sports cars, awards, recognition, gold teeth, television specials, private jets, stacks of benjamins, and the American dream coming true in 2012.
Distracted.
I quietly sulk out of the bed in my hospital gown, and tiptoe over the linoleum, leaving footprints of DNA for forensic investigators to discover and collect later.
I look at my daughter. My baby carrot.
I love her, but she doesn’t deserve this:
I pick her up and cradle her close to my breast, swaying back and forth, humming a soft lullaby into her orange ear. 
I pop her into my mouth with a little bit of ranch, swallow and choke.
I will choke on her for the rest of my life.

*

Here’s some advice:
1. You’re life is not important because you get married. (The divorce rate in America is over 50%.)
2. You’re life is not important because you have the ability to reproduce.
3. You’re life is not important because you raise children.
4. You’re in jail, along with me. Life sentence.
5. And overpopulation is the number one problem in the world.

*

The jovial smell of jubilation masks the smell of bodily fluids drifting off the dirty linens in the hospital room. I bury my head in the pillow to escape the smell, and start tunneling through the center with a homemade tool made out of five scalpels and an ice cream scooper searching for daylight.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

An Elederly Deli Customer Offers To Give Me Psychological Advice While Ordering A Half Pound of Cooked Ham

The other day, a short elderly lady with a cute, but very wrinkly face, asked me to slice her a half a pound of cooked ham.

"Any preference on how that is sliced?"

"Very thin."

I told her, "I'll do my best," looking straight into her blue eyes.

She smiled.

"If you don't, I tell you what the hell is wrong with you!"

 I cut each slice extra thick on purpose and moved it onto the scale.

She shook her head, pulled a pillow out of her purse, placed it on the counter of the deli case, and told me, in a reassuring voice, to "relax, lie down, and make yourself comfortable."

And I did.

She proceeded to inform me of all my chemical imbalances and psychological deficiencies, as I explained my past and present staring into the stained drop ceiling.

I got up, bagged her half pound of extra thick cooked ham, slapped the price sticker on it, handed her the bag, and she walked away, pissed, towards the bread aisle.

We really shared a moment together.

And I'll never forget it.

Honestly.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

excerpt from unfinished novella: how have you been?

December 25

“What is sorrow? I thought. What is sorrow but old, worn-out joy?” – Jon Raymond



Excerpt from Moral Orel: Episode: “Maturity”
Orel: Well I tried not talking about my feelings, too.
Clay: Oh son, behaving like a grown up is many things. First and for most it means doing things that you hate doing.
Orel: Like what, pop?
Clay: Well like dealing with people who make you unhappy, being stressed about things you have no control over, working soul-numbing jobs.
Orel: Ooh
Clay: Then gradually as we endure these hardships and accept them as normal, that's when we finally earned the right to get drunk and be emotionally distant from our families.

 *

The coffee pot gurgled on the polished stone countertop as red kielbasa casings, mash potatoes, gravy, and grizzle were scraped off the floral china and dribble into the black plastic garbage bin with a plop.
            “Oh, the countertop is made out of recycled stone. I’m not sure what types of stone are in it, but it’s called ‘Chocolate Truffle.’” My Aunt Nancy said slowly annunciating each syllable like the TV personalities on the Home & Garden channel.
            My sister Jenn spun her head around, took a sip of pinot grigio, and responded, “Well it looks real schnazzy!”
            “It better after how much it cost!”
            The women in the kitchen burst into giggles and laughter as the assembly line of female hands scraped, washed, dried, and put away the dishes. The men sleepily drank their beers watched a repeat of the ’95 Rose Bowl game where Penn State beat Oregon; the last Penn State team to go undefeated. A traditional Swiderski Holliday dinner, well almost.
            For me, Holliday family dinners with the Swiderski clan always came at a price. I’m not talking about family feuds, shitty cooking, or an aunt or uncle who has one too many. No, the reason why I never liked these soirees is because I usually spend most of my time outside by myself. It’s not because I hate my family or because I’m anti-social. (Not to say that it hasn’t helped me avoid the occasional awkward small-talk conversation with an aunt, uncle or cousin. You know, the conversation where you’re giving the generic questions and responses because there’s no common ground, but you still feel obliged to speak because your family.) It’s because I have asthma and horrible allergies, the most annoying being my allergy to pets.
Whenever I am in a house that has an animal (more specifically, any mammal that is covered with hair or fur) in it, a horrible chain reaction starts to unfold. First, red blotchy hives start to show up on my face. Then, I start to wheeze. Next, the eyes start to water and become bloodshot, which is usually followed by a runny nose and a box of tissues. At this point, I usually have to take two hits off my Albuterol inhaler, flood my eyes with Naphcon, and ingest two pink pills of Benadryl. If I continue to stay submerged in the toxic atmosphere, the Albuterol inhaler becomes worthless and I have to take a full on nebulizer treatment to keep my lungs from closing up. It usually ends with me having to go home because I’m too sick. But, every now and then, it’ll end up with me spending a night in the hospital. (This happened to me a couple of times because I was too sick and too far away for my mom to take me home.)This condition caused me to spend the majority of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dinners outside. If it was mild and dry, it wasn’t so bad. I credit it with helping me win the 2001 and 2002 Knights of Columbus Northeast Free Throw Championships due to the number of hours spent shooting at the basketball hoops that hung around whosever house we were at. What made me despise these get-togethers was the amount of miserable hours I spent outside huddled up trying to keep warm or dry in inclement weather. When I was younger, I wondered if I was the only kid who had to where long-johns to Christmas dinner or if there were other kids out there like me.
But not this year; I left the long-johns at home. The high pitched yelps of my Nana and Pop-Pop’s poodle were absent. All that could be heard was the constipated belches of the coffee maker bubbling along on the chocolate truffle countertop in the kitchen.
I got up from the lacquered kitchen table and stood on the outskirts of the living room as Kijana Carter exploded for an 83 yard touchdown run on Penn State’s first possession.
My dad took a sip of Coors Light and exclaimed to my Uncle Rick, “It’s sad that they can’t even come close to doing this anymore.”
“Well, they can on defense.”
“Sure, but on offense they’re putrid. This team scored 38 points in this one game. They can’t score 38 points in three or four games anymore. Peeyew!” he said with glee in his eyes as he looks at my uncle and pinches his nose.
“Well that boils down to a lot of things: coaching, recruiting, academics. But, they just can’t develop talent like they used to. I mean look at the team their playing next week, Florida…”
My Uncle Joe turned and made eye contact with me as the white foam clinged to his half grey half brown mustache. Small Talk.
“Matt! What’s going on buddy? Still frostbitten from being up in Vermont?”
“Hey, what’s up? Nah, I’m warming up thanks. How’s it going with you?”
He paused and took a sip of his black Stegmaier Winter Warmer before he responded.
“Good, good. Can’t complain. Your aunt just bought a new countertop, and of course I had to install it. Besides that, I’m just working on trying to finish the basement. How about yourself? You graduate this spring right?”
“Yeah, if all goes according to plan.”
I had not work on my senior project since I got home; I had five months left to get it done anyways.
“So what do you plan to do afterwards?”
“Um, I don’t know. Well, I’m not sure yet. I think I’m going to take a year off of school and then go for my masters. Right now, school is just getting real old.”
“Well, you got to do something. Your mom and dad can’t pay for everything. Plus, everyone has to work. It’s part of growing up.”
“Yep, yep.”
I was looking for a way out of this conversation when I noticed my grandfather. My Pop-Pop. He was sitting in a maroon wingback chair with his legs splayed out on the matching footstool. They looked like two fallen trees that were tired of standing. His light blue eyes sank into the back of his skull as he rested his chin in the palm of his right hand as he watched The Blue Band play “Fight on State” on the TV.
“Hey, um I’m going to go over and sit next to Pop-Pop. He looks like he can use some company.
“Yeah, I got to go take the trash out anyways before your aunt kills me.”
This was the first time I had seen my grandfather since what has become known in our family as, “The Incident.”
About two months ago, my Pop-Pop took his small French Poodle, Ginger outside so she could do her business, just the everyday routine. While Ginger was searching for the best patch of grass to piss on, my grandfather next door neighbor yelled over his fence, “Hey, those dogs are out.” Earlier in the day, two dogs, a Rottweiler and a German Sheppard, had escaped from a their pen; the owner of the dogs was on vacation, and his elderly mother was watching them.  Before my Pop-Pop could even process the statement, the German Sheppard had charged and got a hold of Ginger. It shook her back and forth like a teddy bear, but instead of soft white stuffing there was blood. He hurled himself onto the back of the dog, and started swinging with balled fists at the dog’s head. A few landed, but the pain wasn’t enough persuasion for the Sheppard to let go. The Sheppard started rolling around the ground like an alligator in a death roll as Ginger’s high pitched yelps of agony echoed off the bricks and blue vinyl siding into the street. The Sheppard’s spiked collar sliced my grandfather’s forearms causing them to bleed. Finally the Sheppard let go and ran off after the next door neighbor hopped the fence and smashed it in the back with a wooden stake that’s meant to hold up tomato plants. A small puddle of syrupy blood started to form under her mutilated body transforming her fur from white to pink to red. My Nana broke into tears after arriving at the crime scene; she was inside when what went down went down. He gathered the body his little baby, his Ginger and wrapped her up in a blanket. My Grandfather, with tears flooding down his face, drove frantically down the highway to the animal hospital, repeating, in a low murmur, the phrase, “I wish I had done more,” over and over and over again. The story made the front page of the local newspaper.
“How could he have done more?” I wondered as I walked over to him. He took his dog outside to go to the bathroom. He wasn’t expecting a German Sheppard to come bolting down the side of the yard, and attack his dog. It’s a freak accident. There was no time to prepare, just react. Plus, he’s an 84 year old man. He’s my grandfather. My Pop-Pop. He was the man who survived the streets of New York City, alone, homeless, and parentless when he was 10. He was the guy who punched a his commanding officer in the face while he was in the Navy, and hitchhiked 7858 miles back to Nanticoke so he could be with my Nana. He was the guy who took his grandson fishing multiple times every summer since he was 7. He didn’t take shit from nobody. He was one of the only people from my family who I actually admired. I admired him even when he blamed me for running over the bait bucket, or when he turned the boat 180 degrees around because I was catching fish and he wasn’t. I wanted to tell him, “You did all you could have done. Don’t beat yourself up over this cause you don’t deserve it.” And suffocate him with a hug.
I sat on the tan plastic fold out chair next to him as I contemplated telling him what I was thinking, something meaningful.
“Hey Pop-Pop. So have you been out golfing recently?”
Small Talk.       

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

sorry i'm nervous and don't know what to say or how to start this

Hi.

I write.
This is a place for me to show you what I write.
And for you to read what i write if you want to
 +
have nothing better to do
 +
cure boredom.

I will also post things that I find interesting because it will make me feel better about myself if someone comments on it because I need validation like everyone.

I also work at a deli in a grocery store in pennsylvania.
While I'm working, I think about all the random ways to get accidentally injured at a deli without being at fault. I also smile, slice, weigh, bag, and say, "Have a Great Day!"

It's like selling drugs, except you don't see very many hundred dollar bills
+
you have to put your hands near blades and hot oil
+
no getting high during your shift cause you're selling ham off the bone, american cheese, and bacon lovers turkey, instead drugs.

I graduated college and moved back home a couple of months ago.

I didn't get any sleep today because there was some guy using an electric drill because my parents' have to remodel every square inch of their house. Which means I'm tired.

"Have a Great Day!"