Sorry I bitched out from using the word "bitch" in the title. Regardless, this is my 99th post.
I want to buy a Misfits shirt with the skull. You know the shirt? White skull on a black background. But, I called Jake, my style advisor, and he advised against it. He said I would look like a teenage girl.
My argument is this: the shirt has finally surpassed the lowest of the low on the cool spectrum and is once again back on top. Every teenage girl who ever listened to, "Die Die My Darling" bought the shirt two years ago. Now, the shirt lies in their closet, next to a pile of Fall Out Boy shirts and choker necklaces. The shirt waits for its resurrection, ready to rest on the back of only the coolest of the cool - me. I mean, I would buy a fresh shirt, but you get what I'm saying.
I have always liked black t-shirts with white writing. And I like The Misfits. At least, I liked The Misfits. And I'm ready to rep them. Or, is it too soon? What do you think?
One problem. I probably don't have enough money to buy the shirt. Bummer.
I want to buy a Misfits shirt with the skull. You know the shirt? White skull on a black background. But, I called Jake, my style advisor, and he advised against it. He said I would look like a teenage girl.
My argument is this: the shirt has finally surpassed the lowest of the low on the cool spectrum and is once again back on top. Every teenage girl who ever listened to, "Die Die My Darling" bought the shirt two years ago. Now, the shirt lies in their closet, next to a pile of Fall Out Boy shirts and choker necklaces. The shirt waits for its resurrection, ready to rest on the back of only the coolest of the cool - me. I mean, I would buy a fresh shirt, but you get what I'm saying.
I have always liked black t-shirts with white writing. And I like The Misfits. At least, I liked The Misfits. And I'm ready to rep them. Or, is it too soon? What do you think?
One problem. I probably don't have enough money to buy the shirt. Bummer.
"And as the elevator descends, passing the second floor, and the first floor, going even farther down, I realize that the money doesn't matter. That all that does is that I want to see the worst."
--Clay
This is what a recession looks like.
The sandwich looks mostly inedible, with orange house sauce oozing out the side and onto the plate. I look up at her from my half-eaten chicken sandwich. I should have ordered the Cobb salad.
"It's the same way in Ireland, though," she says. I stare at her rounded forehead and nod. I am bored. My gaze returns to my lunch plate and I move a fry into the house sauce with my left hand.
Agreeing to go on a lunch date seemed like a good idea at the time. She has a sexy, raspy voice. See, that's my problem. My Achilles heel, my Siren's song. And she called me. The nerve. Normally, a woman who calls me is a turn-off. I would never agree to meet her. At least, I mean, if she calls me sober.
I'm still leading the house sauce with a soggy french fry when she starts humming to the music coming out over the loud speakers. Cher, "Believe". When the song reaches its peak, when Cher sings the word, 'believe', her hum climaxes with an irritating squeal. She stresses the squeal for a long time. I let the fry drop onto the plate and look back up at her. I can't think of anything to say.
"It's really cold out again," she says; smiling. I look outside. She starts talking about the night we met, at The Charleston on Bedford. I hardly remember that night. I thought I gave my number to a smaller, darker girl who was with her. I thought we met at The Tavern on Driggs.
"And remember those d-bags at the bar with their girlfriends?" she asks. "They thought they were, like, being hip or something." I chuckle and she is encouraged. She talks louder.
"Like, what were those woman wearing?" she says, her face contorted with disgust. I stay silent. My mind is elsewhere, now. I look at two empty glasses sitting on the table. The drinks helped lunch drag on. Next time, I will drink coffee; not beer. Next time, I guess.
The waitress comes to our table and hands me the bill. She is cute, but her teeth are small and yellow. She smiles, anyway. I slowly reach for my wallet and place it on the table.
"Ohh, I can pay, too," she claims.
"Is that cool?" I respond immediately. She is surprised. She manages to quickly mask her surprise and hurriedly reaches for her purse. She is flustered.
"Totally. No problem at all. I mean, hey, I called you." She laughs.
"Sorry, it's just, you know...," I pause. "The recession," I blurt out. I can feel a goofy look creep onto my face and I regret saying this. I don't explain any further. She laughs and we leave the table and walk outside.
The day is clear and cold; the sun hurts my eyes. The wind makes me shiver and I put on my Turtle Shell Ray Bans. I look at her.
"Well Dianne, it was fun," I say. "I'm glad you called."
She turns away from me and blushes red. She mutters something.
"What," I ask. She is too shy to flirt with me or ask if I want to see her again. She's not that bad looking, maybe. I don't know.
"It's Lianne," she says softly. "Lianne."
--Clay
This is what a recession looks like.
The sandwich looks mostly inedible, with orange house sauce oozing out the side and onto the plate. I look up at her from my half-eaten chicken sandwich. I should have ordered the Cobb salad.
"It's the same way in Ireland, though," she says. I stare at her rounded forehead and nod. I am bored. My gaze returns to my lunch plate and I move a fry into the house sauce with my left hand.
Agreeing to go on a lunch date seemed like a good idea at the time. She has a sexy, raspy voice. See, that's my problem. My Achilles heel, my Siren's song. And she called me. The nerve. Normally, a woman who calls me is a turn-off. I would never agree to meet her. At least, I mean, if she calls me sober.
I'm still leading the house sauce with a soggy french fry when she starts humming to the music coming out over the loud speakers. Cher, "Believe". When the song reaches its peak, when Cher sings the word, 'believe', her hum climaxes with an irritating squeal. She stresses the squeal for a long time. I let the fry drop onto the plate and look back up at her. I can't think of anything to say.
"It's really cold out again," she says; smiling. I look outside. She starts talking about the night we met, at The Charleston on Bedford. I hardly remember that night. I thought I gave my number to a smaller, darker girl who was with her. I thought we met at The Tavern on Driggs.
"And remember those d-bags at the bar with their girlfriends?" she asks. "They thought they were, like, being hip or something." I chuckle and she is encouraged. She talks louder.
"Like, what were those woman wearing?" she says, her face contorted with disgust. I stay silent. My mind is elsewhere, now. I look at two empty glasses sitting on the table. The drinks helped lunch drag on. Next time, I will drink coffee; not beer. Next time, I guess.
The waitress comes to our table and hands me the bill. She is cute, but her teeth are small and yellow. She smiles, anyway. I slowly reach for my wallet and place it on the table.
"Ohh, I can pay, too," she claims.
"Is that cool?" I respond immediately. She is surprised. She manages to quickly mask her surprise and hurriedly reaches for her purse. She is flustered.
"Totally. No problem at all. I mean, hey, I called you." She laughs.
"Sorry, it's just, you know...," I pause. "The recession," I blurt out. I can feel a goofy look creep onto my face and I regret saying this. I don't explain any further. She laughs and we leave the table and walk outside.
The day is clear and cold; the sun hurts my eyes. The wind makes me shiver and I put on my Turtle Shell Ray Bans. I look at her.
"Well Dianne, it was fun," I say. "I'm glad you called."
She turns away from me and blushes red. She mutters something.
"What," I ask. She is too shy to flirt with me or ask if I want to see her again. She's not that bad looking, maybe. I don't know.
"It's Lianne," she says softly. "Lianne."
1 comment:
this is the principle you used for the undertaker shirt, i believe. maybe you can start rocking all the weird shirts you wore freshman year. like the one you don't remember that said hey in three different colors.
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