By law if 49% of a dollar bill is still in tact, it's still legal tender.
Exit Seventeen
$2.90 toll.
I hide the decrepit dollar under an in tact bill in order to trick the foolish government worker.
She was smarter than I anticipated.
"I cant take this" She yelled as she wiggled the handicapped dollar at my window in protest.
"Why not?" I continue to tell her the percentage rule. "I got it from a toll booth woman, and you're a toll booth woman, so take it"
"I'm sorry ma'm, I can't take that"
Since when was I a 50 year old woman?
"Fine" Grumpily, I miraculously find four quarters in the depths of my empty passengers seat.
Deciding that this woman has succsessfully ruined my drive, I yell "HERE!" and throw the quarters at her face and proceed to drive off.
Sure maybe it was rude, but hell lady; just take my god damned dollar.
Fast foward our lives to three weeks later:
I haven't eaten a thing all god damned day.
My classroom is sweating and so am I.
I pour fourty-five thousand dollars into a college and they can't even regulate temperature. Go figure.
I only have two bucks in my pocket; one of which is the deformity.
After my bagel is gloriously toasted and cream cheesed, I hand the cashier my two dollars.
"Um, I can not take this" comes the expected reply in broken english.
I spew my line about "the law" and "percentages"
"No, we can not take this"
Thank you government. You haven't helped me yet. At least you are consistent.
"Guess what lady? Youre going to take it, or give me this bagel for free because I have no other money in my pockets" Great. 10:26 and the arguing over nothing has begun. What a day.
"No no no"
"If a vending machine can take it, so can you" I grab my brown paper bag and stand there offering her the chance to actually take my money. She hands it back. Astonished, I leave. WITH the bagel.
This dollar is a bad habit.
This dollar is a starving dog.
This dollar is everything you grew up hating.
Money is a ridiculous concept.
Lets go back to trading pelts and chocolate.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Pick up an artist
At this point in my day I've been looking at books for the past 2.3 hours, in a four story bookstore. Words don't make sense to me anymore, so I decided to look at the picture books.
Crouching at the end of the photography isle, I find a book that is as banal as the color some call, "concrete" in this town; A book on dogs.
And thats when I feel it.
I dont even have to exercise my already dead peripheral vision to know that there is a man made of soot and boot dirt with yellow eyes breathing down my neck waiting for my concentration to break long enough so he can get his "hello"s in.
My book snaps shut like a starving venus fly trap- and so does his voice.
Before Im even able to grab another book on "trees" or "the ocean", my ears grab on to his "Heya there little lady" and refuse to let go.
"Um. Hello" Quick, fingers; find me another spineless picture book.
"So, you like dogs?" My fingers fail, but my ears hold steadfast.
No, I was just looking at a book on them because the fiery hatred I have for them burns inside me like one thousand suns.
"Yeah"
I can practically smell the acidity of the wash on his jean jacket, and yet if devoid of all senses, I know Id be able to still feel the grime falling off of him.
"So, what's your sign?"
I pretend I have no clue what that means, in a feeble attempt to knock him out of 1983. But apparently thanks to some wormhole, we are in a club listening to Bonnie Tyler, and this creature wants to know my sign.
"Your astrological sign" Smacks his reply; since he now assumes he is smarter than I by showing an acute display of his knowledge of the final frontier.
His words clasp my ear as though my wrist were that of a child's and his one of the man in the park that drives a large white van.
"January. I was born in January." The words drool out of my mouth. I cant stop them. Drool. Helpless word dribble.
"OOh girl you and earf sign!"
Great, now hes excited.
With my nose buried in yet another picture-book that I cannot even seem to view, his words dance with my ear on the devils dance floor.
After I tell him I am not one for organized religion, his grasp seems to weaken and my ears can finally breathe.
I still cant come to terms with how I was not able to ask him to leave.
Maybe I felt sympathy for him.
Maybe I felt couldn't make another human feel as horrible as I felt.
Maybe, I just couldn't feel.
Crouching at the end of the photography isle, I find a book that is as banal as the color some call, "concrete" in this town; A book on dogs.
And thats when I feel it.
I dont even have to exercise my already dead peripheral vision to know that there is a man made of soot and boot dirt with yellow eyes breathing down my neck waiting for my concentration to break long enough so he can get his "hello"s in.
My book snaps shut like a starving venus fly trap- and so does his voice.
Before Im even able to grab another book on "trees" or "the ocean", my ears grab on to his "Heya there little lady" and refuse to let go.
"Um. Hello" Quick, fingers; find me another spineless picture book.
"So, you like dogs?" My fingers fail, but my ears hold steadfast.
No, I was just looking at a book on them because the fiery hatred I have for them burns inside me like one thousand suns.
"Yeah"
I can practically smell the acidity of the wash on his jean jacket, and yet if devoid of all senses, I know Id be able to still feel the grime falling off of him.
"So, what's your sign?"
I pretend I have no clue what that means, in a feeble attempt to knock him out of 1983. But apparently thanks to some wormhole, we are in a club listening to Bonnie Tyler, and this creature wants to know my sign.
"Your astrological sign" Smacks his reply; since he now assumes he is smarter than I by showing an acute display of his knowledge of the final frontier.
His words clasp my ear as though my wrist were that of a child's and his one of the man in the park that drives a large white van.
"January. I was born in January." The words drool out of my mouth. I cant stop them. Drool. Helpless word dribble.
"OOh girl you and earf sign!"
Great, now hes excited.
With my nose buried in yet another picture-book that I cannot even seem to view, his words dance with my ear on the devils dance floor.
After I tell him I am not one for organized religion, his grasp seems to weaken and my ears can finally breathe.
I still cant come to terms with how I was not able to ask him to leave.
Maybe I felt sympathy for him.
Maybe I felt couldn't make another human feel as horrible as I felt.
Maybe, I just couldn't feel.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
