The Fear of Ketchup

I can’t make this shit up. Next in the pile of strange relationships is a guy we’ll call PJ. He was afraid of ketchup. But before I get into that one, let’s do a lead-in. This one I met at a party that was lovingly dubbed the “Sex and Candy” party. Okay, I’m all decked out in my white trash costume--the hair is teased, I have fake hickeys everywhere, and the candy necklace waits on my neck ready to be chomped on. Fabulous night on the way, yes?

Well, I spotted this one as I chomped on the neck of some rocker guy. PJ had one eye on this liter of wine and the other on my own necklace. At least I think that’s how it went; he could have been a lazy eyed drunk. Anyway, we flirted and sampled each other’s necklaces but never exchanged numbers. It wasn’t until a month later that my roommate gave him my number when she saw him walking around campus.

Things started out pretty cool. We hung out a few times, and I started to tell my friends about him. I chatted with one friend over a ritual game of Mario Kart. She recognized his name, but not the way I knew him. This friend told me he’s the uber-religious type who heads the campus religious movement people. Oh, shit. Religion is not my thing, but I decide to continue hanging out.

A night of conversation at dinner confirms my friend’s information to be true. He also admits that he’s got a form of catatonic schizophrenia where all of a sudden he’ll freeze into a MJ crotch grab and freeze for hours. (Okay, that’s not entirely true, but I do have to protect his privacy a bit right? However, I think that would be the most bitchin’ catatonic state ever.) Anyway, as we chomp on our glorious campus meal, I pile on the ketchup and start to pass it to him. His eyes widen, and the chair tilts back as he bursts, “No thanks.” What is this guy’s deal?

Of course I confess this to my friends. You see, ladies, this guy’s got a couple strikes on him even if the ketchup thing was a very odd joke. One – freaky religion. Two – strange disorder. Three – pending that something as lame as ketchup counts as a fear. My friends, the wonders that they are, decided to check things out for me. I was mysteriously unavailable for a trip to the store one day. In the pursuit of brownie points and milk, he decided to join my friends without my company. My friends recall that everything was going fine until one of the girls sneaked up behind him with a big-ass bottle of red death. They tell me that he was still white for a good twenty minutes after he blacked out. Later that evening I decided that we didn’t need to be exclusive in our relationship.

On a side note: I guess I can’t blame the guy too much. Some people (me) have irrational fears as well. Take clowns. I’m not a fan; I think they’re creepy. Besides, anyone who’s heard the midget clown killer urban legend probably understands my fear here. I do wonder if he had a bottle of Heinz 57 on him though…

Relief in the Refrain

Slowly erase a trace
Scribble over a date
a name
an idea
No more
A group of smiles replaces
the two frozen stiff
framed by rigid boundaries
A moment captured lies
Buried in the obscure chamber
It echoes
words still hollow
strike a nauseous chord
A chorus of fallacy
With a bridge of collapse
Falling for a date
a name
an idea
No more
Just a swelling sound resurfaces
It’s the sigh of relief
the relief in the refrain

The ABC’s of this Bitchin’ Author

I think to better understand my writings, my readers need to know what I’m all about. What better way to do that than to make my own style survey and answer it? Is it shallow and a bit on the lazy side? You bet. Until I feel the need to write a proper biography for myself, this is what I feel is necessary.

A stands for ASS. What do you have to say about that?
I love the word about as much as I love my own.

B stands for BABY. Thoughts?
I maintain that I was often mistaken for Buddha in my early years.

C stands for COCKTAIL. Favorite?
One which is not a virgin is fine with me.

D stands for DATE. Who makes the first move on a date?
It does not matter to me. Sometimes it’s a good idea for the girl to make the first move, especially if she is impatient or really has to pee.

E stands for ESSENTIAL item. What is yours?
Contacts/glasses. I’d fall off something really tall or get hit by a car if I made it out of bed first.

F stands for FAKE ORGASM. (No explanation needed)
Wait, that’s the best I can come up with for F? How do I even answer that? False?

G stands for GRAND GESTURE (I would get so many points in Scattergories right now). What would you say qualifies as the lamest grand gesture for your love and attention?
On a date, the guy took me to the top of a small parking structure to look over the nasty ass Ohio River before he decided to swallow my face.

H stands for HELL YEAH. Explain the biggest Hell Yeah! Moment in your life.
Graduating high school takes the top spot. This is not because high school was difficult because it was not by any stretch of the imagination. High school blew, and I felt underappreciated as a functioning member of the social/dating society. So it was nice to get out of that life and start a new one, which contained more than enough to keep me writing for awhile.

I stands for IGNORANCE. What’s something you are completely ignorant about?
I know absolutely nothing when it comes to high fashion.

J stands for JUST FRIENDS. What does that mean to you?
Let me put these two words into a simpler translation: Evidently, you don’t understand that we are not compatible as a couple because I have zero desire to touch you anywhere, let alone where you think I’d secretly like to touch you. It doesn’t matter how many beers you put on my tab, I’m not getting in bed with you. Since I am a compassionate human being, I will allow you to oogle me from a strict distance of no closer than 5 feet. I’ll pretend that our awkward conversation qualifies as a normal relationship I’d have with any other creep that I may call just a friend.

K stands for KILLING TIME. What’s the best way to kill time?
Laughing my ass off with friends so much that we forget what we started laughing at in the first place.

L stands for LIMELIGHT. Describe a moment in the limelight.
When I dress up as the rejected third Olsen twin (which basically consists of prostitute wear and a great story). She’s recognized regionally—okay only by a few people locally, but one spotted me at a concert in another city. That totally counts.

M stands for MAPLE SYRUP. Stories?
Do not ever buy the cheapest syrup if you really want waffles. It turns out it’s got the consistency of water. That shit needs to be thick and delightful if you’re going to do a waffle correctly.

N stands for NO. Best story including this fabulous word?
Although I have difficulty saying it now, it was, in fact, my second word ever.

O stands for OLFACTORY. What pleases this sense the most?
Ah, the smell of firewood.

P stands for PISS-ANT. Use it in a sentence.
You know when it sprinkles just enough to keep you damp, but you don’t quite want to reach in your bag for an umbrella—that is what I like to call piss-ant rain.

Q stands for QUOTE. Do you have any favorite quotes?
One of my own which is unbelievably true: “Boys, booze, and bitches are the root of all evil.”

R stands for RAMBLE. Do it often?
I tend to ramble when I’m nervous.

S stands for SSSSS.
That’s not funny. I used to have a lisp.

T stands for TRUTH. Good liar or stick to the truth?
I think I’m missing the gene which allows me to tell untruths. I’m a terrible liar, and that is okay with me.

U stands for UNDERWEAR. Fill in your own answer here.
So what if I prefer to call the clothing that covers my ass “underwear” and not “panties.” Maybe I can’t say that without laughing a little bit.

V stands for VICTORY. Greatest victory in your life?
Not getting the shit slapped out of me on a daily basis. It’s hard being a functional smart ass.

W stands for WRONG.
I love telling people that they’re wrong.

X marks the spot. Just where do you think that is?
I’m pretty sure that depends on who you’re asking.

Y stands for YELL. What’s something you yell constantly?
Son of a bitch!

Z stands for ZODIAC. Into that shit?
Yes, I’m the one that got a tattoo of my zodiac sign when I was 18. It’s below my ankle and it’s often mistaken for a palm tree or female reproductive parts.