"Yeah, ah, gimmie...white russian, heavy on the Russian. Oh man, I need a kebab...HOLY CRAP I love this friggin' song! Wit my mind on my money and my money on my...Yo! Alexander that chick was sooooo checking you out..."
This story has been lurking on my hard drive for a while, so I thought I'd give it a digital airing just for kicks. I've been focussing so much on finishing up my YA novel and working on the next adult novel, (tentatively titled Adonis Comma Coma), that I haven't done much in the way of short fiction for a while. I thought it only appropriate to post a story about Charles Darwin in a drinking competition on a religious holiday.
No one was more surprised than me when I managed to sell my crappy, possibly cursed guitar for a grand total of $40. Seriously, I would have paid someone to take that thing away from me. Sure it was a weird ad (you can view it here) but I sure as hell didn't expect queries such as:
"Is this guitar REALLY cursed?"
"Can I film you smashing it?"
and "Are you still single?"
In any case I have more crap around my house that I want to get rid of, so without further ado (or even adieu) I give you:
Hi. How are you? Yeah, listen I know we don’t really speak enough considering you live literally within a Molotov cocktail’s throw of my house but the fact is that you give me both the heebies AND the jeebies. In spades. I know, I know we’re neighbours and all that but really this is the digital age and the fact is that I have a more significant communication networks with Icelandic septuagenarians (who, coincidentally have faster internet than us) than I do with you. You’d think that this would be a lament on the woes and ailments of a modern society, but considering the fact that I am constantly afraid that you will eat my eyeballs with a spoon, I actually like it this way.
This woman has faster internet than either of us, and I would much rather talk to her than you.
I’ll admit I’m slightly more paranoid in general ever since that junkie broke into my house a few months ago. Let me expand on that point before I continue, I wouldn’t want people mistakenly thinking that I’m a Brooklyn ghetto street press writer. The fact is I live in Ashgrove and the junkie in question was a woman somewhere between the age of ‘dear lord if I haven’t had children by now it’s far too fucking late’ and ‘Finally! Concession price on prescription drugs.’ She also broke into my house at 7am on a Monday morning. 7am. WHO THE HELL DOES THAT? I was awakened from a delightful dream wherein Fiona Apple was serenading me whilst baking me a cake by the sound of shattering glass. I stumbled upstairs in my pyjamas and morning face to find an oldish lady rummaging through the upstairs bedroom. I was so confused that I as I pushed her out the door I even used the word ‘please.’
Artists impression of the old junkie that broke into my house.
These events may go some distance to explaining the feeling of dread that descends on me whenever your predatory eyes settle on me and watch my every movement as I walk to my car. Much like the thought of Miley Cyrus licking my grave, it just feels wrong on so many levels. Also the other day when I crossed the road and then crossed it again so I could get to my car without going near you it was primarily because those cigarettes you were shirtlessly smoking smelled like compressed Russian baby faeces blended with a hint of Kings Cross hooker spew. Too much? Well if that’s painful to read, try SMELLING the stuff. I mean, I’d recommend you quit, but a small and evil part of me takes some satisfaction in knowing that they will accelerate your eventual death.
Also, your girlfriend is hot. She could do better. She knows it, you know it, I know it. Just saying. Next time we see each other, instead of you staring at me like you are dreaming up ways to sautee my liver, can we not just avoid eye contact and each pretend that the other doesn’t exist like normal humans?
A brief but essential guide for those making the difficult transition from solitary living to cohabitation.
1 Air guitarring way too enthusiastically.
Obviously a small amount of air guitarring is permissible, nay, REQUIRED in good company. However, full on, down on your knees ‘guitar face’ soloing is highly ill advised. This goes double for head banging, particularly after that time that I slammed my head into the coffee table during the solo to ‘good times, bad times.’
2 swearing at the toaster
This probably shouldn’t be done in any case. I mean, it’s not the toaster’s fault that you slept in because you were so busy dreaming that you could speak French and had to save Scarlett Johansson from attempting to sing Tom Waits songs only to awake and find that only the first part of that particular nightmare was the invention of your imagination. It’s not the toaster’s fault that the fucking toast takes so fucking long to fucking cook fuck fuck shit FUCK! And no throwing the toaster at the wall doesn’t help, it’s not the wall’s fault either.
Was it all just a horrible dream?
3 Wearing embarrassingly effeminate underwear that your ex girlfriend bought you and you really, really wouldn’t wear anymore if it wasn’t so goddam comfortable.
Okay, so the relationship was an absolute train wreck (and I don’t mean page 12 footnote mention train wreck, I mean prime time, front page, widespread devastation and carnage level train wreck) but I did get this one really comfortable set of boxers out of it. Sure they have what I would LIKE to refer to as stallions but am aware most people would prefer to identify as ‘ponies’ printed on them, but damn, so comfortable! Might have to stick to wearing them underneath other clothing items of the slightly less humiliating variety. Such as my brown flares with the 'Bowie’ patch sown into the bum.
when I say: y'all say:
4 drinking alone
Thankfully, drinking alone becomes substantially more difficult when surrounded by other people. However, this will mean an end to passing out on the couch whilst watching Black Books with a bottle of cheap red wine and a bowl of half eaten microwaved pasta four nights a the week. The other after affects of drinking alone, such as karaoking the fuck out of heartbreak classics, particularly those that explicitly refer to oneself as a woman, are also now banned.
5 incessantly asking editing advice
Does this scene work? Is this characters voice appropriate for their cultural background and level of education? I’m not sure about the ending…Do the supporting characters need tweaking? Should it have ninjas? Should it have zombies? Should it have pirates? Should it have zombie ninjas pirates who take over a condo in California that neighbours a cemetery on one side and a celebrity rehab facility on the other?
Gets annoying doesn’t it? Well, if you live with me you sure as hell better get used to it. I have to bring these characters to life and I need your help. If you don’t help me its like you aren’t helping to raise a child. WHICH IS ALMOST LIKE MURDER!
Besides, for every one question I verbalise I have another 10 748 buzzing around in my head, just imagine how annoying that gets.
Okay that’s all for this week. You may resume your meagre existence til then.
THE END
Was that okay? Did it read 'glib' or 'self-depreciating'? Do you think they’ll like it?
"Yeah, ah, gimmie...white russian, heavy on the Russian. Oh man, I need a kebab...HOLY CRAP I love this friggin' song! Wit my mind on my money and my money on my...Yo! Alexander that chick was sooooo checking you out..."
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