Last day of work at CQ Researcher!
When I’m sitting outside, the bugs eat me alive. The mosquitoes here are tiny; they look like little black sparks. Sometimes I swat at them, generally when they land on my face or on my book. Mostly, though, I let them take whatever minuscule amount of blood they want to take. The thought that a drop of my blood is buzzing around in the belly of a bug amuses me. I wonder where I go when the mosquito finally pisses me out, fully digested. My essence, transformed into waste, might be running down a blade of grass somewhere and drying up in the sun. Or maybe a bird swoops down and swallows the mosquito, and then I am inside the bird. And who knows what will happen to the bird? Letting a bug draw an infinitesimal bit of blood from me is a small price to pay for such an adventure.
There is always someone out in the courtyard of my apartment building, yelling on their cell phone. As far as I can gather from the snippets of conversation I hear, they are generally yelling at their parents. About what, I can’t understand. You’d think it would be money- DC is an expensive city. But it’s hard to say, since they communicate almost exclusively in scoffs. And half-sentences, one party interrupting the other in a volley of half-finished thoughts.
If they aren’t yelling at someone, they’re chatting, no matter what they’re discussing. “I’m outside, wearing sweatpants,” to “I’m so tired,” to “Megan’s dad just died, they think it’s suicide.” There isn’t much nuance to it, or privilege to any one fact, just a list of the latest happenings.
No judgment- unless I’m particularly engaged with someone, I communicate in the same way. It just strikes me as odd. I expect more pretension from people, more romance surrounding their own lives, more drama. But it’s all just one thing after another.
For Overkill for the summer I think?
Wrote some flash fiction as Katie Mchugh instructed and here it is:
“A spiritual experience is a lot like a seizure, I’d imagine, but I’ve never had a seizure,” says the Marquis, massaging a cut of butter into every crack of a crusty piece of bread. He pauses to allow everyone at the long table to laugh.
And then, his skeletal wife: “Darling, get Edgar. Have him play his violin.”
I was inspired.
This pops out when I print something. Dunno why I find it so nifty.
My friend Andrew posted this and I couldn’t help myself.
tell me I won’t make a fort of mr. pibb
gonna write something for overkill this week. i think it’s gonna be something weird like this:
