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ChiChiChoo had a lot of time on her hands. As part of her duties as forewoman of the Cuckoo Clock Country robot-manned assembly line, she was required to stand at the end of the last conveyor belt in the huge factory warehouse and, as each clock presented itself at the end of the line, allow it to plunk down into her waiting hands. This, her boss said, would assure that the company lived up to its promise that each clock was "touched by our own craftsmen", a claim that many furious clock-owners had been questioning in online customer feedback forms.
Two teenaged boys discuss in whispers how the hottest girl on the crosstown bus doesn't seem to know how hot she is. Her lips, so full and pouty, are hotter than Angelina Jolie's by a mile. Her body, so lush yet thin, is hotter than Angelina Jolie's by ten miles. But what of her eyes, they wonder? She's so mysterious, there in her front seat, in her dark sunglasses, staring straight at them, as if she can hear them behind their cupped hands. She must be blind not to know how hot she is! Little do they know ... she is!
The anthropomorphism must stop
, Bettina tells herself for the fourth time this week, when she brings her bag of garbage back home instead of leaving it outside for pickup. Every day the bag gets fuller, and now it's threatening to tear and vomit its contents onto every step she treads to reach her fourth-floor apartment.
"I feel sorry for the trash," she tells her cat. "I don't think the plastic bottles are gonna be happy living with coffee grounds for all eternity. I swear I heard one of them say, ‘Are you ready to rumble'!?" I just can't have that."
She's had it with Scott's abuse. She's sick of gnawing her thumbs to the consistency of ground beef. Sick of peeling her cuticles like bananas.
This gives her an idea. She swears a cartoon lightbulb pops above her head.
She endures Scott's abuse for two more years, and manages to save enough thumb-meat and cuticle-skin to make a rather sizeable hamburger. This she does, on the last night she spends with him.
The next morning, in the toilet, a fully fashioned female hand waves up at him. Scott trips and cracks his head open on the tile floor. Oh well.
It's only a matter of time before Benny realizes the water chestnuts he's been raving about are really flat disks of alabaster glass Marina's been bringing home from the glassblowing class he's been mocking ever since she first told him she was interested in learning a new craft.
"I don't know what you did to these things," he says, rooting through his bowl of stir-fry with his chopsticks, searching for more water chestnuts, "but I'd swear you'd taken a cooking class instead of that stupid fucking glassblowing one."
"So glad you like it," Marina says, smiling at his bloody lips.
The malted milk balls in Henrietta's coat pocket are melting from the warmth of her fingertips, which haven't stopped jostling them since she crammed them there two hours ago.
"Where are you running off to?" her mom had asked, as Henrietta, her cheeks flushed pink, scurried toward the front of the drugstore and stumbled through the front door. "If you just wait a minute, you can pick out whatever you want!"
Henrietta can't believe they're stuck in traffic now, where she can't divert her mom's attention long enough to bring her fingers to her mouth. This is the worst day EVER.
Hi. How's it going? How're your toes? Still disgusting? Are you still neglecting to do something about the toenails, which I didn't get close enough to to survey completely but which, from my vantage point several feet away, were disturbing enough for me to avert my eyes in disgust lest I focus on them more fully and thus ask you to take me home, oh good god, please take me home?
I'll probably still let'cha fuck me ‘n' stuff, but when the time comes, would you mind wearing socks? I won't even mind if they're black.
I didn't feel right making a special request for our first date, but, for our second, I respectfully ask this: Would you mind terribly if, when I arrive, and you're just getting out of the shower and have to pass through the living room to get to your bedroom ... would you mind terribly if I asked you to please wear more than just a small white towel wrapped around your midsection? The sight of your reddish-haired, pale, fleshy, barrel-chested torso, damp and flushed from the steamy shower, made my dick go limp. And I'm a girl.
Would you mind if, on our next date, we don't kiss? I'm fine with everything else, and in fact encourage you to go beyond what we've already done, but ... the kissing? That shouldn't continue.
It's not that I don't like you. I do. It's just that your kisses leave me wet. And although you might think that's a good thing, I assure you that the "wet" I mean is not the desirable kind. The wet of your kisses is the kind that leaves my chin puddled in drool. Save the kisses for below my belt. OK?
Every night an obnoxious loud buzzer somewhere outside my bedroom window makes itself known with the loudest, most grating and insistent buzz, like that on a game show, vehemently informing contestants that their answers are wrong ... wrong, damn it ... wrong, wrong, wrong ... WRONG, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES, JESUSFUCKINGCHRIST!!! The buzzing continues throughout the night, with blatant, mocking disregard for my peaceful sleep or general sanity.
What's going on? Is some crazed, strung-out Alex Trebek wannabe perched on his fire escape all night, maniacally quizzing himself non-stop, asking himself questions that have no correct answer? I can think of no other explanation.
My 3:00 Thursday sessions with "Constance Grant" ("Sylvia Beck" in my appointment book) aren't as productive as they used to be. Although she's always insisted that I address her as "Mrs. Cary Grant", she never used to refer to the actor himself. Now she tells me sob-filled stories of how "my late husband, Cary Grant" used to shout "Judy, Judy, Judy" at her whenever she didn't prepare the brisket to his liking (which was often).
"It really upsets me," she says today at 3:24. "The bastard knew my name wasn't Judy. Why couldn't he just get it right for once?"
I have temporarily turned into a girl. It's not too bad, I guess, if you don't mind waking up one morning and reaching for your dick, only to find it's not where you left it the night before and in its place you discover a velvety smooth spot. And if you don't mind when, reaching down to scratch your chest, your fingers land on a tiny tit the size of a gumdrop. But really, when I made this wish last night, I should've said "woman" instead of "girl", because I was looking forward to handsful of my own enormous jugs.
I guess I should've gotten the hint that Laura didn't want anything to do with me anymore when, one evening at Olive Garden, she propped an enormous, ornately carved Chinese screen between us. To be honest, I hadn't even noticed her bringing it along in the first place. So I said so.
"See?" Laura said. "That's exactly what I mean about not paying attention. It's so fucking typical."
I gave her the finger from behind the screen.
"I saw that, you jackass," she said.
That was the first time in ages that I truly enjoyed my Olive Garden limitless salad.
After writing her goodbye letter to Rick, Lisa places the sheet of Obsession-scented paper into its matching envelope and stares at its flap. Should she seal it without reading her poem again? No: tears would smudge the ink.
She brings the flap up to her eyes and slides it beneath them: her tears will seal it. She's crying more now (oh, the symbolism!) wishing she'd known she'd be tear-sealing the envelope, so she could tell Rick about it in the letter.
She swipes the flap passionately and gets a major papercut.
Oh, the first cut IS the deepest,
See that khaki-covered, backpack-toting guy over there, crouched by the grimy homeless guy with the drool-dragged beard, crap-encrusted pants, and oddly clear blue eyes, the one with the crudely lettered sign declaring I AM HUNGARY, PLEAS HELP, THANK U & GOD BLESS? That guy is Wonderful. Listen as he calls the vagrant "brother". Watch as he puts his just-washed hand on his brother's never-washed one. He's so Wonderful he doesn't mind the grime. At least as long as someone's watching. When he returns to the office, he bolts to the men's room and scalds his hands under the faucet. He's Wonderful!
The new kid cries weird. Or maybe he's just gay. Whatever it is, it's freaking all the other kids out and no one wants to play with him during recess, which makes him cry more and harder, which freaks everyone out more and harder.
It was weird enough when he first cried after his mom dropped him off that first day: his tears streaked his cheeks blue. It was even weirder when he fell off the monkeybars and his tears turned his face orange. But what's this? Nobody plays with him and he cries pink and purple? What a fag.
I learned how to hate you by focusing on the image of you jerking off on your unmade bed on a sunny afternoon while listening to Dido, using a picture of Daniel Day-Lewis, head shaven and in profile, carefully removed from a magazine and taped to your wall, as fantasy fodder. Your upper back blushes beneath your huge tattoo. You gasp the choking gasp of a gray-skinned, gray-breathed emphysemic, and your eyes roll back into your shaven head, thus preventing you from sneaking a peek in your mirror to see if you really do look like the actor in profile.
Remember me? We met in late 1997 after I contacted you on Yahoo! Personals. I'd been in a dangerous and lusty mood and you seemed like you could deliver both danger and lust ... in a nice, gentlemanly way.
You were shorter than I wanted you to be and not nearly as well-dressed or smooth-talkin'. Why'd you sound so much better-dressed and better-versed on the phone? And why, when at your place, did you lick your jizz from my torso after safe-sexily depositing it there? That was uncalled for. And that's why I never called you again.
Here's a little-known tidbit that most readers of my world-famous website are not privy to, but which I'm making public to the dedicated readers of 100Words: I'm moving!
Don't worry, though. I'm not relocating to another state or even another city. I couldn't do that. Which is a good thing, because my parole officer, Cathy B., says that other states and cities will not have me. I am, however, free to wander around New York City to my hardened heart's content!
(I'm wanted for armed bank robbery! That's why I never post photos of myself on my site. Why else?)
Candace hates when people call her "Candy Girl". She especially hates when people say it when she's in her candy-striper uniform, rolling the concession cart from room to room, handing out magazines, books, and candy.
It's gotten so bad that she's asked her mom if she can get her name legally changed. "I'm so tired of all the jokes," she said with an angry sob, her cheeks flushed pink like cotton can--... well, you know.
"Why don't you just get another job?" her mother said. "Or tell Mr. Iggy Pop to take back that song he wrote just for you?"
Colin Farrell was on "Ellen DeGeneres" today, and I must confess: I found him riveting. I also confess that this isn't the first time I've found him riveting. And by "riveting", I mean highly fuckable. And by "highly fuckable", I mean VERY highly fuckable. Oh yes.
I said to myself, aloud, "He's a fucking dirtbag ... and I find that incredibly sexy." I actually censored myself to myself, too, because I was thinking VERY DIRTY things about him. Things so dirty I cannot say them aloud or whisper them, even when alone. I can, however, think them, loudly, inside my head.
The online satellite map that Lois uses to plot her friends's houses, when she's bored at work and needs diversion, is from 2002 – one year before her only daughter jumped from the window of her fifth-floor apartment and made a permanent dent in three otherwise non-descript squares of sidewalk. When Lois isn't busy placing and replacing commas in Mr. Garner's correspondence, she's busy zooming in on the site of her daughter's suicide, squinting her eyes in an attempt to see through the low resolution blur and onto the once-smooth cement, cementing for herself the memory of her daughter's happier days.
Your chicken parmigiana was so lame. You should have asked my dad to get my mom's recipe so you could at least bribe his three kids with food a lot more effectively.
I mean, really, J. One small chicken half-breast per person? Coated with unseasoned bread crumbs, topped with sauce as zesty as ketchup and a single slice of individually-wrapped, entirely too square cheese? What the fuck?
My mom's dish was a multi-layered fiesta, so thick and dense and flavorful. And enough for leftovers. You'd think she was the one who'd had to resort to bribes.
Thank you for making my decision not to join your 92nd Street gym a very easy one.
Was it mildew in the showers, outdated equipment, cramped quarters? Rapists on the treadmills, vagrants lurking in the locker room, rotting corpses by the juice bar? No. And no. And oh god, no.
Was it a herd of ignorant, self-involved, haughty counterpeople crowded around a computer screen, laughing uproariously as if in Central Perk, too "busy" to show me the facilities? A condescending counterbitch who called me "honey"? The general cunty attitude? Yes. And yes. And oh god, yes.
Jill buries her nose in the crease where her book-pages are glued together and hugs the covers to her cheeks. Closes her eyes, inhales, and holds her breath. Her eyes flutter – rapture! – beneath their lids. That smell always does it.
She exhales, a langorous sigh. Inhales again. And back again.
With each exhale, the book expands around her face, like a balloon inflating. She inhales and exhales even more deeply and rapidly for what seems like hours, and when she opens her eyes, her body is suspended inside the book-balloon.
It worked. It finally worked!
At long last, she's safe.
She looks up at you with that shy smile you find so cute and extends her arms straight up toward you. You're much taller than she is (she's barefoot!), so her arms are on a 75-degree angle to the floor. In both her palms lays a miniature log cabin made of popsicle sticks and Elmer's Glue-All.
"The roof was the hardest part," she says.
You want to thank her for the gift, but you realize, Wait a minute, she's fucking 29 years old. Why the hell is she still making these things? And where the hell are her shoes?
My old boss, R, was an absolute asshole, and I wanted to find a way to get back at him for the effects his assholeness had on me. So one day when he was out of the office, I went into the closet by his private bathroom and took out the plastic container of Tucks pads that I'd discovered on a previous snoop. And then his bottle of rubbing alcohol. I dumped some of the Tucks liquid into the sink and replaced it with rubbing alcohol.
This was my way of letting him know he was literally a flaming asshole.
We've gone days without smiling at each other. I non-smile vigorously and don't let on that I've even seen him enter the room. He, however, looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and, finding no smile for him, doesn't produce one for me. He bows his head five degrees and hurries past.
Today I look him full in the face. He interprets this as an invitation, a sign for him to smile. And when he does, it is the smile of a boy who's just had his braces removed and doesn't realize the confidence behind straight teeth.
I miss my hot holistic doctor. When he magically cured me, he said he wished he could find a way to bring me back to his office because I'm his funniest patient. I know, natch, that after he said "funniest", he silently added "sexiest" and "prettiest".
Tonight I'm reviewing the list of foods that caused my ailment and tomorrow am shopping for them. I'm concocting a casserole of lima beans, cauliflower, brewer's yeast, almonds, gluten, malt, and pinto beans, and, at noon, shoveling it into the same mouth that will be blowing him at 2:00.
(Doc, I'm also the sluttiest!)
I hate the people who make entire lunches out of free food court samples. Rather than fork over a few dollars for full-size versions, they prefer to make a big show out of gathering handsful of cellophane-tipped toothpicksful of cut-up sandwiches and pizzas and cramming it all into their greasy maws so fast that the tray-holding representatives of the next few vendors don't see that they've already had more than enough.
I hate them for the gluttony, and I hate them for their lame attempts at humor, such as, "And they say there's no such thing as a free lunch!"
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