When you write, there’s always a critic around the corner waiting to wipe their ass with your work. Like just recently, I went for drinks with this dude I know who’d been pickin’ at me to read my shit for the longest time. When I finally started this blog, I sent him the link. Sure enough, he’d read it top to bottom and was now telling me his opinion of it between sips.
“You know, it’s okay, man,” he said. “But I really feel like your stories are just the standard things I would hear during a night out at a bar.”
I thanked him politely and changed the subject. Later that week, I had a special experience. Below is an account of that experience. And dude, if you’re reading this, feel free to tell it to your buddies the next time you’re at a bar :)
I walked to the bar in the rain alone. I got in there and the place was packed. Blue and pink lights shined over a sea of heads. Silver tinsel lined the walls. I threaded my way up to the counter and ordered a beer. I was tired so I yawned. A girl with long black hair yawned back at me. I grabbed my beer and went up to her. The instant my mouth opened, my cock was snipped off by her friends. I deflated like a balloon onto a stool. I watched the cute barmaid make a Margarita. As she drew up the ingredients from below the mirrors, it hit me. Everything she picked had been plucked from somewhere else – the limes from Portuguese orchards, the Tequila from Mexican cacti, the glass from Arab sands, the ice from Polish streams. There on her slab of wood, this woman molded the fruits of the Earth to her liking. I looked around and saw that everything else – the chairs, tables, floors, walls, sinks, ceilings, shoes, shirts, watches, on and on and on was precisely of this nature. Christ, there was even a special fridge just for the Red Bull! I brushed my fingers over a forest of straws. When the barmaid grabbed some napkins it was like she was ripping out the guts of a tree. I could no longer take it. I left the bar dizzy and stunned. My mind was a twisted wreck. As I turned the corner, I was stopped dead. Just in front of me was a strange cluster of trees. They looked like they were huddling together over the street below. I felt drawn to the closest tree. I ran up to it and wrapped both my arms around its trunk. I told it I loved it. It loved me back unconditionally. It was almost like hugging a dog. I told it I was sorry for everything I’d done. It forgave me instantly. People saw me hugging this tree and crying. I heard them laughing at me. I could feel the points of their fingers burning into my back. Eventually, I let go. I promised the tree that I would never forget it. I staggered off towards home. When I reached the cemetery, I felt a giant finger pass through my head and on down to my toes. My body rained with sunlight. The finger moved me forward like a penny over glass. I heard a voice in my ears. It told me I was doing the right thing. I told it this place was too fucked up for me. It told me to see that and know it well but to keep going. I remembered a friend had once called me “touched.” I smiled at the thought of this. I fixed my shirt and brushed my shoulders off. My night ended with a kebab.
Note: I reserve the right to occasionally alter the character names, descriptions, and/or event details in my posts for the purposes of identity protection and “fluidity of story.” If this puts a kink in your panties, read someone else’s blog, homey.