Prozac: Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't!
I wonder sometimes why people do the strange things that they do. Is it some affirmation, some calling that beckons to their psyche, requiring them to do some deed for good or evil before a certain amount of time has elapsed? Maybe they're just stone out of their minds? I like to hope that people do things for a very specific reason- unfortunately when I go to realize or at least prove or disprove that claim, it's never the way I'd hoped it would be. For the record folks, I'd like you all to know- I've just seen the craziest. Woman. On. Earth.
Today is my day off- yes, a Thursday- a wonderful, fleeting Thursday that's simply going by too fast for my own good- but I'm thankful for it anyway. I work the evening shift, from 2pm to 12am, 1am on Saturdays, doing the one honest thing left in the world that spawns so many dishonest and illegal things. The funny part about my job? It's absolutely and utterly ironic to my cause and morals as a human being.
I don't smoke. I don't drink. I don't gamble. I adamantly avoid the last one and vehemently hate the first two. Sadly? I peddle all three to alcoholics, smoke-a-holics and gamblers the city-over. That's right; I work a Corner Store. A Diamond Shamrock to be precise- one that they pay me a disgusting sum of money to run and basically do nothing day in and day out. It's a wonderful existence if not for the ten-hour shifts. The money more than makes up for it though, I assure you.
So yes, in a nutshell, a paraphrase or however else you want to title this sum: I sell the last bastion of hope for illegal substance abusers; the last vestigial 'drug'. Alcohol, Cigarettes, Porn and Lotto Tickets. Yeah, yeah, tsk tsk. I just work here. So anyway, back to Sister, 'Coo-Coo for Cocoa Puffs'.
I sleep late because of my schedule and thus, I'm a wake when most are sleeping- I interact with my family in the late portions of the evening on my days off between the hours of 1 or 2pm to whenever they go to sleep. They do their thing and in most cases, have problems in doing so- today's problem? Anti-Freeze leak in one of the vehicles. My dad, the sporting fellow that he is and- I'm proud to admit- a recovering alcoholic, goes out to see just what he can do. We're light of pocket now until tomorrow when pay checks come and thus, gas money is a consideration- at least until noon tomorrow.
One car down, the others have no gas and the only one that does- his truck. He lets his fiancee borrow it, but before he does, he goes out to check the gas and dry up the anti-freeze spewing about the street.
He's outside for approximately three minutes, I'm in the living room watching the News Reports about- you guessed it- the Lotto that no one won last night, and he comes bursting through the front door:
"Ant! Ant, you gotta come see this! This's the funniest shit I've ever seen. Hurry up and get your shoes on, there's a lady outside doin' an exorcism on a truck!"
At first I didn't understand- the words came so fast and the subject so random, my mind simply couldn't parse it. I look at him, blink, and for a millisecond that seems to drag on into the bosom of infinity, I ponder this statement and wonder if I've fallen through the world of matter and slipped into the realm of absolute insanity.
Little did I know- I had. I get up, zoom over to the coffee table, grab my shoes, whip them on, try not to knock over the table holding the house remotes and boogie out behind my dad- a man close to 60-years-old who's sprinting at top speed- to the parking lot. - And 'lo- like some grand herald to stupidity, a sultan over the many fiefdoms of absolute, raving, crazed-fucking-lunacy, I see it. A woman wearing what could only be described as a cultural mishmash of Shaman, Swami, Bullshit-Palm-Reader paraphernalia and random garb, is out, in what I can only hope is rare form, spattering a red truck in holy water and shaking large bells on a belt in her hands. She proceeded to dance around the truck, climb into the bed, up onto the roof, down over the hood and down onto the ground. She spun, she twisted, she twirled, leapt pirouettes in the air, jingling and jangling these bells with the kind of ferver seen only in the eyes of religious zealots proclaiming the power of their chosen gods. She sang, tongue rolling over difficult syllables and consonant clusters I wouldn't even dream of practicing for fear of calling down some burning, horned creature wanting to gouge my testicles into my abdomen.
People in the parking lot stared, some disbelieving, some in awe. . . most just laughing their fucking asses off. Like I was doing.
It hit me like a tidal wave of glee and elation- finally I'd found another idiot- another moronic prozac fugative- who would give me the laughs I was missing ever since I moved from Memphis. I burst into laughter, howling with gut wrenching muscle spasms that threatened to literally kill me. The woman turned to watch me, balking and scoffing, unable to believe that God would allow someone to live who would laugh at her precious ritual. But there I was, laughing, unable to stop myself, unable to control the powerful heaves of joy manifesting themselves in the form of rolling fits of screaming hilarity.
I mean, honestly, what the living fuck did she expect me to do about some crazy woman bounding about around an old raggedy-ass truck screaming things like: 'OUT! OUT DEMONS! I, THE HAND OF GOD COMMAND THEE! THE SPIRIT OF GAEA PROCLAIMS YOU FALSE!'.
Oh my Lord. That made my lifetime.
Holy shit. I hurt.
P.S. Yes, I'm back!
Hybrid: Out.
Today is my day off- yes, a Thursday- a wonderful, fleeting Thursday that's simply going by too fast for my own good- but I'm thankful for it anyway. I work the evening shift, from 2pm to 12am, 1am on Saturdays, doing the one honest thing left in the world that spawns so many dishonest and illegal things. The funny part about my job? It's absolutely and utterly ironic to my cause and morals as a human being.
I don't smoke. I don't drink. I don't gamble. I adamantly avoid the last one and vehemently hate the first two. Sadly? I peddle all three to alcoholics, smoke-a-holics and gamblers the city-over. That's right; I work a Corner Store. A Diamond Shamrock to be precise- one that they pay me a disgusting sum of money to run and basically do nothing day in and day out. It's a wonderful existence if not for the ten-hour shifts. The money more than makes up for it though, I assure you.
So yes, in a nutshell, a paraphrase or however else you want to title this sum: I sell the last bastion of hope for illegal substance abusers; the last vestigial 'drug'. Alcohol, Cigarettes, Porn and Lotto Tickets. Yeah, yeah, tsk tsk. I just work here. So anyway, back to Sister, 'Coo-Coo for Cocoa Puffs'.
I sleep late because of my schedule and thus, I'm a wake when most are sleeping- I interact with my family in the late portions of the evening on my days off between the hours of 1 or 2pm to whenever they go to sleep. They do their thing and in most cases, have problems in doing so- today's problem? Anti-Freeze leak in one of the vehicles. My dad, the sporting fellow that he is and- I'm proud to admit- a recovering alcoholic, goes out to see just what he can do. We're light of pocket now until tomorrow when pay checks come and thus, gas money is a consideration- at least until noon tomorrow.
One car down, the others have no gas and the only one that does- his truck. He lets his fiancee borrow it, but before he does, he goes out to check the gas and dry up the anti-freeze spewing about the street.
He's outside for approximately three minutes, I'm in the living room watching the News Reports about- you guessed it- the Lotto that no one won last night, and he comes bursting through the front door:
"Ant! Ant, you gotta come see this! This's the funniest shit I've ever seen. Hurry up and get your shoes on, there's a lady outside doin' an exorcism on a truck!"
At first I didn't understand- the words came so fast and the subject so random, my mind simply couldn't parse it. I look at him, blink, and for a millisecond that seems to drag on into the bosom of infinity, I ponder this statement and wonder if I've fallen through the world of matter and slipped into the realm of absolute insanity.
Little did I know- I had. I get up, zoom over to the coffee table, grab my shoes, whip them on, try not to knock over the table holding the house remotes and boogie out behind my dad- a man close to 60-years-old who's sprinting at top speed- to the parking lot. - And 'lo- like some grand herald to stupidity, a sultan over the many fiefdoms of absolute, raving, crazed-fucking-lunacy, I see it. A woman wearing what could only be described as a cultural mishmash of Shaman, Swami, Bullshit-Palm-Reader paraphernalia and random garb, is out, in what I can only hope is rare form, spattering a red truck in holy water and shaking large bells on a belt in her hands. She proceeded to dance around the truck, climb into the bed, up onto the roof, down over the hood and down onto the ground. She spun, she twisted, she twirled, leapt pirouettes in the air, jingling and jangling these bells with the kind of ferver seen only in the eyes of religious zealots proclaiming the power of their chosen gods. She sang, tongue rolling over difficult syllables and consonant clusters I wouldn't even dream of practicing for fear of calling down some burning, horned creature wanting to gouge my testicles into my abdomen.
People in the parking lot stared, some disbelieving, some in awe. . . most just laughing their fucking asses off. Like I was doing.
It hit me like a tidal wave of glee and elation- finally I'd found another idiot- another moronic prozac fugative- who would give me the laughs I was missing ever since I moved from Memphis. I burst into laughter, howling with gut wrenching muscle spasms that threatened to literally kill me. The woman turned to watch me, balking and scoffing, unable to believe that God would allow someone to live who would laugh at her precious ritual. But there I was, laughing, unable to stop myself, unable to control the powerful heaves of joy manifesting themselves in the form of rolling fits of screaming hilarity.
I mean, honestly, what the living fuck did she expect me to do about some crazy woman bounding about around an old raggedy-ass truck screaming things like: 'OUT! OUT DEMONS! I, THE HAND OF GOD COMMAND THEE! THE SPIRIT OF GAEA PROCLAIMS YOU FALSE!'.
Oh my Lord. That made my lifetime.
Holy shit. I hurt.
P.S. Yes, I'm back!
Hybrid: Out.