About an orange, a long time ago
The small orange stayed in the van for days, until we were about to ride
in it again. Someone said that the orange must be rotten by now, even
though it didn't show any signs or smell. All the other girls interrupted
their conversations about how they hadn't showered for days, how they were
re-wearing clothes from the laundry basket, how they were too lazy to wash
dishes and ate on the same plate again and again without washing it, how
they were annoyed by their roommates who were either too bright, or too
reserved, or too popular, or just too balanced all the time, and gave a
long, girly, irritating "Eeeewww!"
Then, as if their irritating girlyness weren't already irritating enough,
all started to demand that the orange be thrown away. That the driver slowed
down and that someone opened the window and threw it out. But none of them
volunteered to do so as they were too girly, too grossed out, too much of an
eeeeww-pronouncing girly girl to touch an allegedly rotten orange.
All the girls, very girly, lifted their feet in the air and squirmed in
girly disgust on their seats. They also turned their faces the other way,
but given that the orange was on the floor, they should've turned their
faces up.
The allegedly rotten orange touched my foot; I picked it up. It must have
gotten frozen during the night and defrosted during the day. The
girly ewwwws and compulsive face turning continued as I inspected it. The
orange had gotten soft inside, but its skin continued smooth and firm
outside. It felt like a breast. The driver slowed down. Among the cells
in my brain, the orange was now officially a breast. The girls, very
girly, very irritating, demanded again that the orange be thrown away. I
supressed all my killing urges and threw the orange away.
Life went back to normal inside the van for the drest of the ride. The
conversation turned to the driver, a girl, girly, who hadn't washed her
hair in 14 days...
in it again. Someone said that the orange must be rotten by now, even
though it didn't show any signs or smell. All the other girls interrupted
their conversations about how they hadn't showered for days, how they were
re-wearing clothes from the laundry basket, how they were too lazy to wash
dishes and ate on the same plate again and again without washing it, how
they were annoyed by their roommates who were either too bright, or too
reserved, or too popular, or just too balanced all the time, and gave a
long, girly, irritating "Eeeewww!"
Then, as if their irritating girlyness weren't already irritating enough,
all started to demand that the orange be thrown away. That the driver slowed
down and that someone opened the window and threw it out. But none of them
volunteered to do so as they were too girly, too grossed out, too much of an
eeeeww-pronouncing girly girl to touch an allegedly rotten orange.
All the girls, very girly, lifted their feet in the air and squirmed in
girly disgust on their seats. They also turned their faces the other way,
but given that the orange was on the floor, they should've turned their
faces up.
The allegedly rotten orange touched my foot; I picked it up. It must have
gotten frozen during the night and defrosted during the day. The
girly ewwwws and compulsive face turning continued as I inspected it. The
orange had gotten soft inside, but its skin continued smooth and firm
outside. It felt like a breast. The driver slowed down. Among the cells
in my brain, the orange was now officially a breast. The girls, very
girly, very irritating, demanded again that the orange be thrown away. I
supressed all my killing urges and threw the orange away.
Life went back to normal inside the van for the drest of the ride. The
conversation turned to the driver, a girl, girly, who hadn't washed her
hair in 14 days...