This past weekend my friends and I celebrated Halloween. There was punch equipped with dry ice and grain alcohol, a fire, a cauldron, an excess of sweet sugary deserts, and way too much whiskey.
It’s the whiskey that I blame. The punch was way too weak to be responsible for the behavior, and the sugar only pushes one so far. The Lord was running about, there were lesbians everywhere and someone invited a very stupid couple. The Lord was on edge because the stupid ones went on and on about recycling, there was way too much yard to cover in urine, the Buddha was getting more attention than he, and I was refusing to sit down for very long. And on top of everything else, I had his, that’s the lord’s, doll. Dressed as a catholic priest, with a doll hanging very close to my crotch, as if to say that the catholic I was representing wasn’t very nice to children, I drank my whiskey.
The provocative nature of the costume amused everyone but disturbed some so much as to get me slapped (accidentally?) in the balls. In fairness the doll was struck, then my balls hanging low on the other side of the doll… got offended. God (the vengeful one) had up until that moment taken the night off. It took time for the pain to travel up my leg, to my spine, and finally to my brain, who had some questions and had to send a reply, and await clarification. Upon receipt of the reply, the whiskey thankfully impaired the content of the message but after further review the message was definitely one involving pain. During the process God spoke to me and said, “She hit you in the balls, something must be done but you should be measured in how you deal with her, she is your good friend’s lady friend after all… pour your drink on her.” And then God closed his eyes, hoping for the best. Bastard.
The words of the divine sounded like logic, and I desperately needed some logic, preoccupied trying to figure out how the thing had happened and why I wasn’t on the ground, I acted. The whiskey I am told was very cold and managed to soak her entirely. My friend reacted as best as he could, I think. While I was mixing* a new whiskey drink my friend appeared by my side.
Father Fuck Toy (angry / confused): “You poured your drink all over my girl!”
Saint Garion: “She punched me in the balls.”
As far as I was concerned that explained everything, and I was ready to return to drinking. I remember he poured his beer on me, but I don’t remember precisely how much of it there was, I didn’t dry off and went to bed dry so there couldn’t have been very much of it. She however had to change clothes, and left me feeling very guilty about the whole thing. I did find her and apologized, but in the end I knew that God had gotten the better of me, because he was insulted by the costume, I couldn’t find and buy a boy doll for it before the party.
*adding ice
Ouch, that has to hurt.
On the upside you looked nice in your costume.
Ket
Hi people
I do not know what to give for Christmas of the to friends, advise something ….
Hello. Good day
Who listens to what music?
I Love songs Justin Timberlake and Paris Hilton
Hello. Prompt how to get acquainted with the girl it to me to like. But does not know about it
I have read through one history
Each of you has your personal story; it is your history. Keeping a diary or writing your feelings in a special notebook is a wonderful way to learn how to think and write about who you are — to develop your own identity and voice.
People of all ages are able to do this. Your own history is special because of your circumstances: your cultural, racial, religious or ethnic background. Your story is also part of human history, a part of the story of the dignity and worth of all human beings. By putting opinions and thoughts into words, you, too, can give voice to your inner self and strivings.
A long entry by Anne Frank on April 5, 1944, written after more than a year and a half of hiding from the Nazis, describes the range of emotions 14-year-old Anne is experiencing:
“. . . but the moment I was alone I knew I was going to cry my eyes out. I slid to the floor in my nightgown and began by saying my prayers, very fervently. Then I drew my knees to my chest, lay my head on my arms and cried, all huddled up on the bare floor. A loud sob brought me back down to earth, and I choked back my tears, since I didn’t want anyone next door to hear me . . .
“And now it’s really over. I finally realized that I must do my school work to keep from being ignorant, to get on in life, to become a journalist, because that’s what I want! I know I can write. A few of my stories are good, my descriptions of the Secret Annex are humorous, much of my diary is vivid and alive, but . . . it remains to be seen whether I really have talent . . .
“When I write I can shake off all my cares. My sorrow disappears, my spirits are revived! But, and that’s a big question, will I ever be able to write something great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer? I hope so, oh, I hope so very much, because writing allows me to record everything, all my thoughts, ideals and fantasies.
“I haven’t worked on Cady’s Life for ages. In my mind I’ve worked out exactly what happens next, but the story doesn’t seem to be coming along very well. I might never finish it, and it’ll wind up in the wastepaper basket or the stove. That’s a horrible thought, but then I say to myself, “At the age of 14 and with so little experience, you can’t write about philosophy.’ So onward and upward, with renewed spirits. It’ll all work out, because I’m determined to write! Yours, Anne M. Frank
For those of you interested in reading some of Anne Frank’s first stories and essays, including a version of Cady’s Life, see Tales From the Secret Annex (Doubleday, 1996). Next: Reviewing and revising your writing