I make up words

These are words that gmail spellcheck disapproves.  I use them anyway.  When I have more time, I will write a story with all these words in it and it will make sense.  It will be called fuck Webster, and the main character in it will be called Webster and he will get killed in some violent attack by bees.  The kind that spell.         

• furnitures
• addlement
• reimpregnation
• unshallow
• forlorned
• clarities
• symbolisms
• garrulized
• unhandled
• loquatiated
• quelch
• monstress
• could've
• shmuck
• shmucky
• Oreola Sugarcookie
• unswelling
• light-headedness
• poultries
• carbohydrated
• brokenupdom
• nowheresville
• predictabilities
• hydros
• indifferences
• sociopathic
• malcontented
• pubice
• prunings
• blindless
• hellacious
• shmooze
• propagandas
• merriments
• whoosies
• dissatisfactions 

Vius

Vius was his alias, and she'd been keeping up with him through internet blogs, exchanging stories.  Their stories were similar.  Real life anecdotes with surreal qualities, which were hard to comprehend to the once-overers, understandable to the well-read who went over it twice, and crystal clear to cryptologists that embraced the challenge of a concentrated notion.

"You're just in time for dinner," he said.  "There's fresh corn and green beans.  You're a vegetarian right?  No?  Well, hell, then we've got ribs too!" 

The herbivoric accusation made her question her outward persona briefly.  Most of Emily's close friends were vegetarians, but being such a non-picky eater herself, she couldn't fathom life without bacon.  It just seemed like too much of an extreme, and a bit too trendy as far as she was concerned.

"You smoke?  Good.  I'm gonna stop and get some cigarettes." 

*************

On the way to a party, Emily's clear red lighter was finally left to rest on the consol after countless fishings for it from the bottom of her purse to light his hollowed filter Parliaments every five minutes due to her date’s admitted Adderall high.  Buzzed rambles about nothing filled her left ear as the right listened to the wind blaring through the one-inch crack of her window; a variation of white noise as a filter; a system of ventilation for better breathing, minimizing potential offensive odors on her clothing.  The boy sipped his cigarettes making a hissing suction noise every time he took a drag one after another after another 

“This, and long stories with no punch line,” she thought, "Wine will be good.  No we won't have glasses.  Whiskey.  Jim Beam, Jack, Old Charter?  Beer chasers for sure."  When they got to the liquor store and he only had six dollars.  She had her visa thank god, and thought about writing a thank you letter to the inventers of plastic.

*************

Half a bottle of ten years later she began to interrupt his tiring rants whenever she didn't care to hear the ends of them.  Not once anymore did she attempt to act like he had said something profound when he hadn't, but the blank looks he induced aggravating to make.  For the sake of entertainment she intercepted his speech and talked of herself at every opportunity, knowing he'd let her speak her thoughts and disregard his own.

"No I'm just rambling, go ahead."

*************

Emily laid in the middle of an abandoned road he'd taken her to, warbling about systems of injustice, while he amused himself with declarations of her being in the road.  She knew at that point she wouldn't remember anything she was saying.  So she said a lot to amuse herself with the sound of her own voice while she ignored his glowing thought bubble hovering over his head.  It just showed them kissing anyway, and she as much desire to taste his spit as she did to lick an old sponge.

*************

It was morning she could tell.  Shriveling pupils, dry mouth and all.  He had managed to squeeze onto the couch behind her while she slept.  As she stirred he said something about shampoo.  She told him it was cheap and purple, sat up, told him she didn't remember the conversation on the road, apologized for blacking and passing out, then fell back asleep to a movie she'd seen a few years ago.  "Like an old friend," she thought saying thanks to the notion of her being the marrying type versus the one night type.  “Like a tender pot roast with so much slow simmering patience.” 

"Too bad you'll never taste it," she mumbled while he rummaged the freezer for nourishment consisting of microwavable burritos and White Castle burgers.

*************

Hovering over the toilet, Emily regretted her misuse of logic in the matter of repercussions, or eating salsa with breakfast.  She knew if she curled up on the mat in front of the tub with the door locked she'd sleep like a baby.  She was familiar with that sort of spot being the only comfort of many underestimated overindulgences having to do with whiskey or any alcohol for that matter.  A flashback of peppermint schnapps contracted the muscles in her stomach.  Ole, indeed.

*************

After three sugary cups of coffee, he played her a song that he'd written, talked about record labels and losing his golden ticket, how he was glad she'd never heard his band so that she could love him for who he was, how one night stands weren't his cup of tea anymore.  "The new songs are great, but we don't wanna play em' live until we get it perfect.  Our bass players a genius, but he's anal, and crazy.  He does a lot of Adderall too."  She asked to borrow some c.d.s to burn, to get something out of the 45 minute drive it took to get there, the self-inflicted stupor, the aural abuse.

"It'll be like medicine for my poor ears," she mumbled.

"I'm glad you like it," he said with a grin.

She held the plastic music cases in her hand estimating postage rates, put two back, read the back of another.

"I'm glad I didn't try to kiss you last night.  I wanna take this slow, and get to know ya."

"I wouldn't have let you kissed me anyway."

He gave her a look as though he thought that was honorable. 

*************

Walking to her car, Emily remembered the boys she had been attracted to in the past.  Why was it such a paradox?  The irony of these situations.  She understood the charm of the challenge, or unattainable glory, the ‘you want what you can't have’s, the forbidden fruit, the sweet hesitant virginal reluctance facade, and the hard-to-get debutante theories, but she was always too selfish to play those games.  If she wanted the boy, she'd have him because the tables were turned as far as she was concerned.  "Evasive qualities are pretty enticing in an opponent.  Like a hare in the woods," she thought, remembering the amber colored fox that bolted in front of her car a few weeks ago when she drove to her curly haired cherub's house to fetch him for a well-planned wine induced petting session.  "Mmm, such flawless skin." 

"Oh thanks.  I'm a compulsive hand washer."

“Not you,” she thought.

*************

On her way home, Emily scanned sad songs on the radio, to purge the damn’s walls of feeling like shit and nothing, but couldn't find one sappy enough to make her cry.  She couldn't stop thinking about them all at once; the blonde arc angel she'd pushed away, the blue eyed soul mate she abandoned without warning, the timid lank she took for granted, and her utter loneliness in her condemned mentality of commitment.  Emily wanted to cry, for the sake of crying.  She wanted the relaxed feeling that came after.  She scanned the songs on the radio until her finger got tired, and settled on a contrived formulaic pop song about nothing in particular.  She knew all the words but sang only the catchy repetitious parts since she didn’t feel like singing, for company; to drown out the remembrance of warm ideals and lips and bellies against her back.  For lunch she would go somewhere nice; somewhere without salsa.  And order a BLT.

San Francisco

San Francisco's a cool city.  The downtown area is a long stretch full of places to spend money.  The streets have steep inclines in some areas.  Too step for motor scooters or segways perhaps.  Too steep for elderly types who you find dead in a power outage heat wave for sure.  Too steep for out of shapes, skateboarders, skinny women in high heels.  There are very steep inclines in San Francisco.  Even more than in Seattle, which also has steep inclines in their downtown area.  Both have many Starbucks.  Every other place is a Starbucks.  Everyone's breath smells like Starbucks.  Except the doorman.  His breath smells like a warm blanket. 

I didn't bring a coat and it is cold here.  The news paper predicts the temperature to run between 60-90.  That's a thirty degree difference.  And that's the HIGH.  They say it stays that way because of the ocean's water temperature being consistent and the breezes coming off the top intercepting any sunshine or cold.  That sometimes in the summer all of the sudden it's hot, then cold, and if you drive down the road to visit your granny, five minutes away, it's cold there even if it was hot where you were.  This talk had nothing to do with small talk.  I was cold when I got to San Francisco, before I bought warm clothes and a shawl wanted to know why. 

If I were an asshole I'd say, "Thanks nobody, for telling me to pack warm clothes and a scarf or something," but I won't do that.  I'll just let myself feel stupid for not knowing about the weather in San Francisco beforehand.  For not doing my research.  I don't mind recognizing my own stupidity.  I like myself that much.

There are a lot of rainbows everywhere too.  Not the kind that come from rain that are really pretty to look at in the distance in the sky with fabled pots of gold at the bottom either.  I've seen women with very narrow hips and pretty faces with caked on make-up.  They had uptight looks on their faces.  Mean expressions.  I deconstruct the women, wonder what they'd look like waking up next to me, if their voices would transmography into a tuba.  I'd ask them if they wanted coffee and they'd say, "Yes, please, thank you."  They'd tell me about their asshole father and their very nice mother in her very nice pink slippers, curlers, her warm breasts.  We'd go for pie. 

guts

A can of shrapnel poured out of bed, slinking over to a chair slicing the folds of leather with a tear and then another, black mascara like fancy licorice sliding down a gravel pit throat, coating it with its bitter residue.  A few nails hit the hardwood floor.  A pile of brown eyes raised question, drifting off dreaming of Don Quixote and windmills and things.  Hands black, carving the flawless marble with lead fingertips, the jagged pieces of metal captured all the tears, then another, placed them in a jar without holes in the lid; put the jar on a shelf amongst other shelves, amongst many other jars.  She would paint her bedroom walls the color of his skin, a pale white with pinkish undertones as blood lies just below the surface, pulsing through his makeshift heart, taped-up piles of ground meat, bones, sandpaper, and stone.  The tan walls, covered with layers of tired thoughts, a deep breath shell of razor-sharp pellets rolled over, shredding, clinking, coils, his mouth, insides, empty and warm.  

Mike

After years of news and porn, Mike was tired of the anxiety.  He was tired of the boozing and whores and meaningless bingo nights seducing septuagenarian widows.  He wouldn't miss the cat hair on his blazers anymore either.  That, or the spider bites from being tied up in basements all the time even though the mildew was okay.  He wasn't allergic to mildew like he was to the color orange, which would unexplainably spin Mike's brain into an irrational whirlwind of impulsive behavior, to the point of urgency!, with the desire to explore new flavors, smells, textures, in the homes of very filthy, but wealthy people.