Apr 032008

I drive through the urban shopping district every day on my way to work. I don’t have to go that way, but I enjoy taking in the sights — where else can I see three wig shops in one block and a man who sells bags of peanuts and screams through your car window when you say no?

Today, the flow of traffic was moving slowly. I glanced out the window and noticed a small crowd of teens, maybe early twenties at the oldest, loitering on the sidewalk. One of the girls was jumping up and down, and I thought to myself, "Aw, it’s nice to see kids excited with life."

Then I realized that she was jumping up and down in rage, and before I knew it, she grabbed another girl and shoved her into the street, in the middle of traffic, and it was ON. Fists were swinging, braids were flying, their friends were screaming. It was intense girl-on-girl street fighting. None of that sissy gun-slinging like the boys do.

A cop who looked to be in his fifties came running into the street in an attempt to break it up. By this point, everyone was idling in their cars, ignoring the green light, and people had emerged cautiously from the surrounding shops to get a peek at the action. A grandmother walked down the sidewalk and shielded her young grandson’s eyes.

The cop had to hook his arm around the one girl’s neck, the one who started it, and then dragged her off the other girl. A guy in a quilted parka came from the other side of the street and restrained her opponent. Once the cop released the first girl, she and her friend stormed off, pounding the pavement viciously with their feet and continuing to snap their fingers and emit battle cries.

Cop cars bleated in the distance, but with the girls on separate sidewalks, the drama appeared to be squelched. I didn’t want it to be over so soon! Not at least until I got to see some slurpy eviceration-action, maybe an eyeball plucked and spinning on finger tip, knife in the vagina. AT LEAST A BLOODY LIP.

I wish all of my work commutes were that action-packed.

Mar 112008

Not surprising, the nightly cleaning team here at my job is a real motley crew. I try to avoid the supervisor at all costs — she sits in her office with her fake beehive hairdo, scraping her lethal fake nails along the desk and berating whichever cleaner forgot to refill the paper towels in the upstairs bathroom. (Never does she reprimend any of them for raiding vacant cubicles of candy though. Oh wait, that’s me.)

Her wingman is this rotund piece of sloppy shit with flapping jowls and tinted glasses. He usually rides in with her, otherwise I bet he’d be driving an unmarked kidnapping van. He swears loudly in a voice that makes him sound mildly retarded. Or drunk. He looks like he could be the villain on a cartoon.

I bet he smokes cigars.

I can’t stand him. He makes me feel molested. He makes me feel like he crawled into my window last night and touch my boobies while talking to me in babytalk and is remembering it every time he looks at me.

Last night, I was on my way back inside from a short break. I was forced to pass by him, but felt relieved because a security guard and another cleaning person were with him.

I thought I was safe. I began to slip through the door, when he started shouting in his disgusting voice that hacks up perversion on everything within earshot.


Horrifed, I did what any other person would do, and turned around to see if he was forcing someone’s mouth upon his yuckystick.

We locked eyes.

"The SWEEPER! I was talking about the SWEEPER!" he laughed. At that moment, I vowed to never have sex again.

Oct 272007

When I was in high school, I bought this totally awesome blue neon frame, which I used as a “Now Playing” CD display. I would leave it on all night as I slept, much to the chagrin of any friend who happened to be sleeping over.

“Can’t you turn this off while we sleep?” they’d whine. Sure, it might not have been very conducive to restful slumber, but every night as that blue neon washed over my sleeping mound on the bed, I was getting more resilient for city-living, for one day in the near future when I’d be living in an NYC loft, bedroom bathed in the bright lights of bordellos and theaters and all-night chicken shacks, bathroom mirror reflecting fragments of the twirling reds and blues of cop lights, the TV unwatchable from the glare of my roommates cooking crack and the sounds of subway riots pealing past my crumbling plaster walls.

Instead, I wound up in Brookline.

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I might not be in the center of a neon circus, but I have a hole in my bedroom wall, my stereo is capped with a bright blue light and I’m fairly certain my neighbor has a meth lab in her basement.

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I’d say that’s pretty damn close to realizing a dream.

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Oct 252007

A few weeks ago, I was seiged by some foreign and atypical desire to participate in holiday work activities, so I signed up for this year’s Secret Santa (except some half-Jewish dude got all riled up so they’re now calling it the Holiday Giftbag). I figure it will look good on my “Please let me into Heaven” resume, and also because I’m a spoiled bitch who loves getting gifts. On my info sheet, I listed all the pertinents: fifteen of my favorite music genres and my dislike of meat and things with flowers on them. For favorite candy, I put “the delicious kinds.” I hope whoever chose me knows to decipher that as, “I am holding a box of fine confections of the cacao persuasion. Now I ask myself, ‘Are these of a quality high enough for even the Queen of England herself to pop between her dry matronly lips?'” In other words, please don’t give me a bag of M&Ms.

I was hoping that I could really change the life of whomever I drew from the lot. Maybe gift them with an original Somnambulant piece of fine, museum-quality art or a trinket to store poison or cocaine. Or poisonous cocaine.

But today, I picked Letisha (after I picked myself, durr). Letisha works daylight and sits two workstations down from me. She has the distinction of being the loudest, skilled gum popper I’ve encountered this side of the high school bleachers and I have a strong hunch that she’d make a fantastic lesbian. According to her fact sheet, she does not like bats or clownes (sic), but has a love affair with r&b and all of its lusty subgenres (especially those that are “smooth’), which she might possibly listen to with her teddy bear collection while lighting melon-scented candles.

At the end, she listed three things she’d like to receive, so I know that if I bought her a “dvd by Tyler Perry” or a picture frame (hello, flea market) she would be a satisfied customer of the Erin Holiday Store. I’m not sure she would be terribly pleased with my original art or The Cure’s Greatest Hits, but I know that food containing the possibility of peanut traces would be alright, because she has no food allergies.

I’m really thankful for this list, because now I feel like I know her a lot better. She went from an aggro gum-smacking, fake-laughing weave-wearer to a Snickers-eating low-brow comedy watching aggro gum-smacking, fake-laughing weave-wearer. I was really quite judgemental of her before this.

At least I know what I won’t be getting her. Gum.