Hay Supermodel! [lines off your stomach]

At my hotel there is a community computer in the main lobby.
This community computer resides directly next to the main door.
This Main door locks at 11:00pm.
This main door has explicit instructions on what to do if checking in after 11:00pm.
These explicit instructions refer to a more then obvious phone to its immediate right.
This phone has the same explicit instructions, which in large bold letters state the following:

FOR LATE CHECK IN'S DIAL 600.

at 11:30pm a woman comes to the door.

pulls.
pulls again.
shakes.
pulls harder.
bangs on the door.

I look up from the computer which resides directly next to the main door.
Reaching over I open the door, at which the woman gives no thanks.
She looks at me and says.

"How do I do this?"

I look at her and say.

"Do what, exactly?"

She shakes her bag at me.

I do nothing.

"I'm Here to check in"

she states in a part irritated part "I am an important person" voice.

I do nothing.

She stares at me.

This is the point where I'm hoping this less then clever woman is realizing that she is shouting at a young girl with wet hair, wearing leggings, moccasins, a neon teal headband (to straighten my bangs) and a pink t-shirt that reads "DONT TAZE ME BRO" in large black font.

instead, she just stares at me.

"I don't work here." I say in a far to friendly manner given her tone."You have to use the phone," pointing towards the door in which she struggled so dearly. "And call the number I think.

I don't think, I know.

I go through this bit at least 3 times a week with Mr. or Mrs. something or another who cant read the signs.

(side note: as I write this, I pause to let in yet another clever tenant.)

[One half hour later.]

A tall grey haired gentlemen rattles the door.
I let him in, tell him his instructions.
He calls.
I re-let him in while he waits for the night attendant.

Moments later, he walks up behind me and reads over my shoulder.
Startled, I turn and look at him.
Reaching far to close to my face, he asks,

"Whats this?!"

"The Internet" I say.

With the man still gazing at the computer, I log out and trudge to my room.

This is why I can't get my fucking taxes done mom. This is why.

Chapter One [Freak Shows are Illegal in all 50 States]

“I love you too!” I yell back into the rushing air as freezing rain fills my lungs, and I roll up the window.

I wait a moment and watch my dad pull out first, then away towards our house, that is, their house.
I think for a minute how unfamiliar it feels to be back in this town, then pull out in the opposite direction.

Regretting my absentminded pack of a mere three cds, I toss an overly used mix into the backseat. Realizing that it is quite possible to feel sick of Otis Redding, as "tenderness" leaks out my ears, and I violently search for a country-less radio station.

Just two hours in I’m already drained.
Blinking the sleep out of my eyes I try to concentrate on the road ahead, the freezing rain and the four hours I have still to go.

Jerking back to reality, I open my eyes.

I don’t know if it was the pressure of having to use the restroom for the 27th time [how much did I drink today, really] or if it was the fact that I was falling asleep at the wheel on a 70 mile per hour expressway. Whatever it was I was awake and in desperate need of a stimulant if I was going to make it back alive. I groggily take the next exit and glide sleeplike into the nearest gas station.

Smacking myself awake I put 20 dollars in the tank and choose the pay inside option.

Oh my god.

It’s nearly midnight and I’m overly tired, fighting back a gapping expression of awe as I drink in the full effect of what stands before me.

It, or rather She, yes she I’m quite certain of it, is leaning against the counter looking hungry and irritable. Her hair is long, thick and burly, kinked into so many jags and turns, trying hard to form curls but instead shaping harsh knots that frame her unhappy shape. She looks up at me lazily, not with a smile, but a small purse of her lips that can only be defined as a wince, showcasing her large dark mustache.

I stand there, for what was probably much to long, in disbelief of the modern day bearded lady. Startled in the realization of its eyes upon me, I spoke much too loud, and much too cheerful “HI!” I half shout, “How are you?” She doesn’t reply, but looks as though she’s contemplating me, sizing me up. I keep smiling, for lack of anything else to do, and let my eyes drift away awkwardly. Pausing momentarily at her arms grossly covered in dark fur, I turn away, sorry that what I’m looking for is so close to the unfriendly caretaker. I search the countertops and nearby surroundings careful not to exchange eye contact, and finally find the array of caffeine pills and products along the back wall. I can feel its eyes bearing down on me as I try to look overly interested in my multiple choices in drugs. I glance sideways at it, and it stares straight back at me. Angry and surprised by my moment of weakness, I say loudly “So which are the best, have you heard?” motioning to the uppers and trying to seem conversational. Raising her eyebrows, she throws a more then arrogant laugh over her shoulder, a laugh hardly comical. “I don’t know,” she sneers “I don’t take them.”

Its 12:00 in the morning and I’m being judged by the hairiest woman in existence.

“I’ll take the middle one” I say, a little less heartedly, pay for my gas, and trudge to my car mildly irritated.

This is going to be a long night.

[well, you've got your diamonds]

I’ve never been in a fight before.

At three in the morning I slam on my breaks.

“You mother fucker,” I swear under my breath and throw it in park.

Getting out of my car I see them stagger a little faster, stumble a little straighter, try to get the fuck away from whatever or whoever is getting out of their car.
It must have been a relief to see me standing there, because they started to lag

“Hey BRO!” I say as I round the front of my car.

“I love you!” he yells back in a drunken slur and keeps walking.

Nice, I think and lean down to get a closer look.
“Thanks for trying to fucking kill me!”

Picking up the blinking road cone that was recently hurled in front of my car at 40 miles per hour, I throw it as hard as I can.

Considering my severe lack of upper body strength, it went pretty far.
As far as I needed it to anyhow.

Screaming as the cone collides with the backs of his legs he takes off running, his two chotch bag companions not far behind.

Satisfied with myself, I immediately turn back to my car when some asshole lays on his horn.

I stop dead, are you kidding me?

“FUCK YOU!” I shout making two of my best hand gestures, and wait for the repercussions.

I’ve never been in a fight before.
Yet here I am, standing in the middle of the street challenging an eight car back up to get out of their cars and make something of it.
I must have looked mental because no one so much as rolled down the window.

I walked back to my car looking tougher then I know I am, and slammed the door.
At 3:30 am, I make it home.

Fucking bros.

[Sell Your Soul]

Wake up.
Where am I?

Lying on the floor in a furniture-less room with three boys all in their respected corners, is a nice trade for dying in a pool of my own sick.

Shift over.
Where am I?
Pushing myself up with both arms, I feel last night roll over me..

Cocktails, pictures, dancing, cocktails, mingling, cocktails, trying to get on the roof, cocktails, laying in the yard, cocktails, cocktails, cocktails.

Last night feels heavy and nauseous. Last night is this morning. I feel heavy and nauseous. Don’t get sick self, you have to go to work soon. Temporarily transferred to another store back home, it’s my first day and I should probably look presentable. Thinking thick and slow, I struggle to regain my vision. What time is it? I manhandle my cell phone out of my purse and attempt to focus in on the time. 9:43am.

Panic.

So let me put this in perspective for you with a small list of facts that have just slapped me in the face at 9:43am.

I am laying on a strange floor half, if not mostly still drunk from the night before.
I am 30 minutes away from my house.
I have to go home, change out of much too short dress, and much too high heels.
Work is 40 minutes away from my house.
It is 9:43am.
At 10:00am I begin my first day of work.

Panic.

I rustle up the things I have lying around me that I’m vaguely sure may belong to me, and rush out of the room, down the stairs (did I get sick here?) around the corner, through the kitchen, out the door, wait. Where’s _____? Reverse through the door, through the kitchen, around the corner, through the known rooms I can find, up the stairs, in and out of the bedrooms and bathrooms I couldn’t find. Regretfully, I leave _____ behind.

Check the time, 9:50am. I’m fucked.

The walk to my car, didn’t happen as far as I know. The particulars of this particular morning fade in and out as the day progresses, and I’m fucked. Arriving at my parents house 30 minutes later, I walk in the door looking something like I’d assume a strung out hooker to look. My mom greets me at the door, with a much to cynical “GOODMORNING!” her smug grin reminds me that she can attend last nights party with one look at me. Cocktails, cocktails, cocktails. “I might die.” I say, and trudge down the stairs. I can hear her faint laughter through the drywall. I strip off the clothes that are now made of smoke and liquor, and start the shower. It is here a plan is conceived.

Plan:
Get out of shower, brush teeth, never drink again.
Set alarm for 12:00pm.
Go back to sleep for two hours.
Wake up and make it to work by 1:30pm
Put on the dimmest look and pretend to have thought you worked the closing shift.
This is a terrible plan, but it’s the best I’ve got.

Sleep.

I wake up and follow the plan step by step. My mom even makes me a pity breakfast-lunch. I also endure much mocking from both parents. Both of which agree with the strung out hooker comparison. Thanks mom and dad.

I drive to work mildly calm for someone who’s about to get fired from a store they don’t technically work at. 40 minutes later, I park and swagger in with the “right on time” look on my face. Crossing the threshold, I run directly face to face with my manager, and nearly lose my cool. Putting on my freshest smile, I regain control. There’s a brief pause where I’m dangerously unsure how the next 60 seconds are about to unfold. Then she speaks. She is my favorite of the managers I’ve met. She talks loud and obnoxious, to the point that it is completely un-obnoxious. She surrounds the whole room when she laughs and yells things unnecessarily. She could knock over a small child with her wind pipes if I had her going good enough, I’m almost sure of it. She is my favorite.

I hold my breath for the backlash, the disappointment, the awkward conversation in the meeting room. I can almost feel the hard wood chair pressing against my lower back as they rip up my W2s and emergency contact information. I make a mental list of things to retrieve before I’m evicted from my apartment, and a list of apologies to my roommate. Wondering who would get the shampoos and conditioners, and would we split the food by amount or by who enjoys the product more, and suddenly I can’t remember who bought milk last. This is a broken home Ill yell, and take all the frozen stirfry. Then she speaks.

“Oh, just so you know, the breakdown is a little messed up because I couldn’t remember what time I told you to come in today, so just follow someone else’s breaks.”

I’m sweating through my shirt, and I am the smartest woman in the world.

[But it's true, even if it didn't happen]

I’m starting to get nervous.
Should I walk away? Should I ask this shoddy untrusting man near by to take over? I’m going to miss my fucking train, I think in a panic.



10 minutes earlier..



I’ve made it.
I stomp the rest of the way lugging my suitcase and backpack uncomfortably by my side and hip. Waking up much to late, I ran out of Kyle’s house, belongings strewn, hoping like hell I'd make it to the train station on time. Thank god, I think. I can’t afford to miss this. I settle in the waiting terminal next to an unkempt middle aged businessman and try to get my life in order. 5-10 seconds later she walks in.

And I thought I was a train wreck.

She’s head to toe glitter, high heeled and poorly dressed for the weather. I hate her immediately. She of course sits directly next to me, neglecting the 100 other open seats throughout the room. Her bags clamber into mine, her purse knocks my arm of its rest, her phone conversation is louder then the over head announcements. I hate her immediately.

For lack of a better name,
The Train station announcer starts to sweep the terminal calling out for anyone riding to Michigan. She’s punching tickets and making her rounds, she finally gets to us. She asks the woman next to me for her ticket. The woman pauses her phone conversation and asks when the train will leave.

“Any minute” she says, and moves down the line.

I shift in my seat and finish off part one of One flew over the cuckoos nest.

But it’s the truth even if it didn’t happen.

I hate being tapped on the shoulder. I hate it almost as much as this woman who’s tapping my shoulder. In my defense, its eight O’clock in the morning and I'm mildly crabby. She smiles thickly showing eighty five percent of her teeth and talks way to close to my face. I want to get up and move.

“Can you watch my things?” she asks, her cell phone still lodged on her face, her smile to unkind, too unnatural. “Ill be right back.”

“Yeah, ok,” I reply.

NO I meant No! Fuck you, self.
She prances off towards the restrooms leaving a trail of loud conversation throughout the noiseless terminal. Minutes, no seconds later, our train starts to board.
Fuck you, self.

I stand there thickly, watching the numerous passengers who’ve been waiting for hours, the passengers who’ve just arrived, the passengers who’ve barely made it, the last of the passengers.

I’m starting to get nervous.
Should I walk away? Should I ask this shoddy untrusting man near by to take over? I’m going to miss my fucking train, I think in a panic. Fuck this I’m leaving it.

I walk/run through the terminal, out the doors, down the platform. Sit down in a sweaty mess, making sure I’m faced to the front. I cant ride trains backward, it makes me nauseous.
4-10 minutes later she walks on the train.
Bags in tact.
I stare out the window appearing occupied.
She glares at me in the reflection as she passes,
leans in behind me and says in her sweetest, "thanks for nothing."

Fuck you, self.

[Gabriella the Bitch]

I have had my Virgin Mobile phone for quite nearly a year, or basically since I moved out of state, so quite definitely a year. I remember my first phone call, it was from a bill collection agency calling for a Gabriella. This is where it all begins, the start of my pay as you go strife, and my hatred for Gabriella. Every month or so I'll get a strewn of calls from a [262] area code, or some blocked/unknown number. Every time my loathing for Gabriella worsened. At first I deleted the voicemails I'd received, automated messages reminding me of my past bills, or family members trying to track me down, all messages for a Gabriella who would never receive them. After awhile I started to call these numbers back, even waiting 20 minutes at a time on hold, needing to know who it was and what kind of trouble Gabriella was in. I became obsessed. I would talk to Businesses calling from Job.com, or Milwaukee Jobs themselves, or numerous out of state banks, and even an Irate cousin of hers who screamed for 5 minutes about Missing a birthday party before I could get a word in edgewise. I felt that with each returned call I was getting closer to the end, closer to unraveling the mystery that was Gabriella. sooner or later Gabrielle would have to realize that she no longer had a cell phone, or maybe any family left that liked her enough to call. Or maybe after months and months of never hearing back from applied jobs, she would become a hermit, or a witch in a forest somewhere. Learning magic and cursing the neighborhood children. And finally it would end, I would never hear from estranged and outraged family from which I didn't belong, or Collection agencies, unless they were actually for me, or jobs asking for my call back only to learn they never left an extension number. And Gabriella would never bother me again with her burdens, because everyone knows witches don't use phones.

[Let me paint this picture for you.]

I'm sitting at MOCT on a Saturday night. This doesn't strike one as unusual considering this is where I am most Saturday nights. MOCT is a nice place, its a bar constructed of an Old double door garage. You walk in the front doors and straight ahead theres the dance floor, its outlined by four long wooden built in benches where drunken girls usually take to dancing, or drunken boys usually take to sulking. To your immediate left is the DJs, probably Asher,[or in this case definitely Asher] To the right of the DJs, some provocative Film is screening against the wall stimulating the girls, or if its football,[and in this case it is] stimulating the boys. Turn further right and you'll reach the bar littered with fancy dressed businessmen and high heeled stellas, probably underage. The night usually starts off slow, not to many dancers except the few who catch themselves swaying or thrusting, embarrassed and red faced. But for the sake of the story I'll move ahead a few hours, one half hour before bar close, and I'm sitting at MOCT on a Saturday night.Cara is up with Asher watching his last set, taking notes with her mind for DJschool. I'm realizing theres no one really to hang with, everyones either to drunk, to unfamiliar or the guy who talks way to close to my face. And these red shoes are really starting to hurt. around ten minutes later I'm sitting on one of the four vacant benches and a trio of guys pass by. The first passes unnoticed, at a normal pace, nothing unusual here.[Heres where it gets tricky.]The second... the second, passes by and RUNS HIS FINGERS THROUGH MY HAIR while still in motion. uhhhThen the third takes up the back, completely unaware of any foul play or hand misplacement. The three men pass, none of which even look in my direction let alone pretend to notice I'm there, and get lost in the crowd. I don't know if you're getting the full effect of this, it was a forehead to back of neck drive-by hand hair combing.Keep in mind that We've been dancing since eleven O'clockish and I have a lot of gross sweaty hair at this point. I sit there alone, mouth mildly open, at a loss for words. We finish out the night dance some more, avoid some fights, the closingbar mayhem, and take our leave.So I ask you this. When is it ok to run your fingers through a strange girls hair?