Hey, writer-type folks. Every Friday we do a fun free write. Basically, you can write whatever you want in the comments section. You have FOUR minutes. Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So tell a friend. If you have one. If not, tell your enemies.
We unwrapped it, and now it's time to wrap it all back up. All those genuine emotions. I feel as naked as a Christmas pass out prank. The good cheer and smiles stripped me down like cheap electrical.
Every year, collective memory loss and craziness. One drunken uncle, two DUIs, and that chick you knew in High School writes you a schizo email.
I'm not knocking it, and I wasn't knocked by it. I like it. It's like hitting the reset button. Or, maybe it's like you have to unplug life and leave it unplugged for fifteen seconds like the Comcast folks say. They say lots of shit though.
It's grey and a little chilly and I feel lucky to have two tiny people to remind me that it wasn't just one day. Or it shouldn't have been.
We will move forward. Can't go back, and I'm done going sideways. Never trusted those crab scuttles. I'm happy for the righteous and glad that burritos exist. Does anything else really matter. You know, besides friends and family and all that stuff I tamped down with leftover fruitcake.
There’s always one. A kid who comes back crying because the gift card got put into the trash. And what can I do about it? She should have been more careful. Parents should have been more careful, and now it’s my fault, ‘cause I didn’t have the brains to blow town fast enough. It’s the suit, see. All those buttons. And all that eggnog. Combine the lactose intolerance bloat with the brandy and you get all fumbly, see, and couldn’t get that suit off before I passed out in the back room. There I am, day after Christmas by the time I shook off that two-day drunk, trying to lose the foam belly and I’m face to face with those big, wet eyes, and what am I supposed to do? So I grab for my wallet and give her a couple bills large. Yeah, she doesn’t know what happened and neither do the parents. Kids never saw those kind of numbers before. Hell, if the suits knew what I was doing, this would be one out of work department store Santa, let me tell you. Sure shut that kid up, though. But I got a bad feeling now. Word of this spreads, kids all over town will be losing their gift cards. Eh. I’ve been through worse. The Reindeer Virus of ’79, the Elf Strike. I can handle it. Man, I can’t wait to get home and shave. I hope the missus has something on the stove.ReplyDelete
Love it. You and me, Boris. I knew you'd never miss the hundred year storm...Delete