09 January 2009

Gate Fever

It's my turn to browse the book cart for a while and pretend that I would actually read any of that crap, when all I want to do is go to the seedy used place down the street where everything smells like my grandma's basement in 1984 and pull out all the yellowed paperbacks whose edges peel up at the corners, and throw them at the clerk who's just sitting there smoking Pal Mals and drinking Diet Coke and wishing she were fucking her best friend's boyfriend or her boyfriend's best friend instead of selling used books for a sleazy boss who never files his taxes. But I can't, of course, and so I select one of the old sticky cellophane-covered biographies of Thomas Jefferson and pretend to be fascinated with my forefather while I pray that someone remembers who I was before. Later I start thinking about how the bitch next cell over claims to be a psychic, and how when I was younger, anytime I was afraid of someone reading my mind (invariably it was a teacher), I would without fail immediately imagine having sex with him--or her, it didn't matter--whether I actually wanted to or not. Every time. But now, I don't care if she reads my mind. We're all thinking the same thing in here. If she can hear it, she's heard it all before.


Blogger Riley said...

what the hell - maybe best post ever????


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