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| the last straw. | 06.11.2004 | |
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 if brigitte bardot was a blond bombshell, this girl would have been a sandy-haired conch shell. and true to the metaphor, she probably had a beautiful body... but it was caped several times ‘round by... well... thickness. this isn’t to say that she wasn’t attractive. in fact, there was something very alluring about her... under that two-day-unraveled pony tail and behind that “i am from st. augustine, where are you from... bitch?” t-shirt. slightly taken aback by the pomposity of st. augustine’s merchandising, i stared at her chest longer than a washboard would typically merit. the “w” in “where” appeared to have re-stitched, and the word “bitch” was actually the handwritten scrawl of a woman with both an attitude and a permanent black marker. in my head, i answered the t-shirt’s rhetorical question. “ohio.” conch shell. pony-tail. st. augustine. “bitch.” permanent markers. oh boy! did i ever want to figure out where this woman was coming from! and, since it was a tuesday... i was up for a little sleuthing. i’d like to begin with exploring the possibilities of her usage of the permanent marker—because, well, i like permanent markers a lot. i like writing with them. using them as pointers when i need to point at things (such as political debate in a with pie graphs). i like using them to poke people. and, i also sometimes stir things with them if i’m without a stirring-spoon... however, that happens so infrequently i probably shouldn’t even mention it. all in all, eleven times out of twelve, the permanent marker is the place to begin... but in reference to investigating this woman, the marker seems to be a dead end. if you’d seen this woman, as i have, you may question that i claim the permanent marker angle to be a dead end... since, she has obviously written with one, and that the pockets of her tight blue jeans were bulging with at least a half dozen of them. frankly, though, i don’t have the slightest clue what all of this marker business truly means. so for the last time... forget the fucking markers. now, lets retake a gander at that re-stitched “w” before my goose gets cooked over this former-marker-clue-turned-wild-goose-chase. maybe the “w” wasn’t re-stitched at all. maybe it was just “stitched.” maybe the shirt was intended to read: “i am from st. augustine, here are you from... bitch?” or... maybe not. how about this: i remember making up some theory about how stitching is a sign of weakness. and, of insecurity. you know, you just couldn’t let the shirt be flawed. are you buyin’ what i’m sellin’? god, it’s so frustrating to be grasping at straws. though, i like straws. i like sucking through them, using them as pointers when i need to point at things (such as political debate in a with pie graphs). i like using them to poke people. and, i also sometimes stir things with them if i’m without a stirring-spoon... however, that happens so infrequently i really gotta start shutting the hell up about that. screw it, i thought. i am just going to ask her “(w)here she’s coming from”... “excuse me, miss?” then, worried that i wouldn’t have the balls to continue (my left testicle is still undescended), i stammered. “don’t you think it’s odd that there’s that saying ‘grasping at straws’?” she gave that flustered, blank look that nurses give grown men when they ask questions concerning their undescended testicles. “...shouldn’t it be ‘grasping at air’ or ‘grasping at arm hairs’ or something? because, really, how many times are you surrounded with straws... and you just keep ‘grasping’ at them to try to keep your thoughts afloat? i mean, i realize it’s a saying... but...” she spoke. “yeah. interesting-- hey, do you know where i could find a good muffin?" as her mouth moved, my eyes caught a glint. she was wearing a tongue ring! and instead of a ball, the undescended end was ornamented with a shell. probably not a real one, because real shells used to have sea creatures living in them... but, a shell nonetheless. a shell. this is probably some beach girl! off the top of my head, the thought of “beach” reminded me of this poorly designed pamphlet that i found on my windshield earlier that day that was attempting to promote st. augustine, florida as the next “ridiculously awesome spring break destination.” i’ve never been to st. augustine. maybe i should go. you know, for spring break or something. but, just then... my testicle descended, and my fantasizing eyes snapped back open. and those thoughts about the beaches of st. augustine were faded... furled like a conch shell. a sandy-haired conch shell. with that two-day-unraveled pony tail and that “i am from st. augustine, where are you from... bitch?” t-shirt. st. augustine: a spring break destination? someone on that tourism board is grasping at straws. |
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| 5:39 am | sui generis said this. | |
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