this just isn't working.

But don't take automatic offense; it's not you. I'm not referring to anyone but me and mine, and you can take that to the bank, where they will proceed to cock (YEAH!) eyebrows and look askance and stand with one leg slightly turned and with arms crossed and with brow furrowed by the rakiest of rakes, because that's how you get a brow to furrow, unless you want it to furor, in which case, go straight to Hitler.

(He's poorly mustachioed, in case you were wondering which one was Hitler. Please to not mistake him for the one with the strange, multi-tiered tale, in flaming crimson hue. AND NO I AM NOT SUGGESTING THAT THE DEVIL IS GAY. ALTHOUGH THAT WOULD CERTAINLY MAKES THINGS FAR MORE INTERESTING. NOT CRETINLY, THOUGH. CRETINS ARE MUCH TOO HIGH-FALUTIN' AND POMPOUS TO BE BOTHERED WITH. JESUS. WHAT IS WITH THIS ALL-CAPS BULLSHIT.)

(I am not drunk. Yet.)

If you know, then you know what and why I refer to in the subject line; THIS - *waves arms about in wildly gesticulating fashion* isn't. And I don't quite know what to do about it.

Also, if you don't know where this quote comes from, THIS one: "Oh, I don't know - can you *bleach* out urine stains?" Then I DON'T WANT TO KNOW YOU.

(I'm pretty serious.)

Come back later for more in-depth tirades over nothing, where I shall do impressive verbal acrobatics and triple-word-axles and yet I SHALL SAY MORE NOTHING THAN I HAVE EVER SAID BEFORE. Because I hate this place. More than ever. And because I belong here because of it.

Hey, did I ever tell you about the girl, that one girl, who wanted to start running? I'll tell you about her right now. And I won't even empty out a drawer full of Word drafts into the latter portion of this post so you think I saved something special for you. I didn't. I would never. I am a big believer in the *poof*ness of immediate writing, performance-art-like, and so.

There was a girl, who wanted to begin running. She would examine her eyes and her pimples and her yellowing teeth and she would run her tongue over the teeth and not the pimples though she would wish she could run her tongue over those, only they were on her neck, and thus a physical impossibility, but it didn't undercut her longing to do so, and she would superimpose the her-running over the her-teeth-licking. She, in cold, in rain, hair frizzled and grizzled, clothes flumping about her form, her awkward stomps, her breath bulleting out of her through all the places on her face that it could get free, even her eyes a little. Shorts sticking to her butt and pulling up between her thighs, her right fist sweating in its tightened ball of fury, her left hand open, dry, fresh, and free. Her right fist so angry, so resentful. Her left hand so happy to be bounced along with the rest of her.

The trees would whisper to her as she ran beneath them, some of them trying to hang onto her as she passed beneath, because they saw her, they really saw her and they knew she was something. They knew she could be their savior, but she resisted their thin-fingered grasps, ignored their imploring scrabbles, ducked. Sometimes they'd leave a gift of themselves nesting in the crown of her hair. It itched.

She ran on, in her mind, and the grass ran alongside her, it sang out, its mouth wet, glistening. She laughed. She knew the grass wanted to run with her always. She could hear the grass when it began to cry because she would not slow for it, not ever.

The cement did not care where she ran. And she did not ask it to.

The sky, the sky sent down little alarms, little bits of itself, it wanted to reassure her, and she, without looking up, told the sky in puffs and wreathes of breath, impulsively, that she would return the favor. When the time was right. It wasn't now. They were in on it, the sky and she, and they were gangsters. Pistolas loaded with words, with breath, with mouths wet, with explosions. Surprises.

The run itself spoke as she went, in a wavering line, it told her secrets, it told her of history and of future and of all things, of her crotch being itchy from the shorts as they rode up, of orgasms that shorts do not give, of hair falling into faces and ears that hear the organic arms of the world around speaking in a cacophony and of crickets, frogs, blossoms, dog turds, and squirrels who pin their paws to their chests in frozen stillness.

And then she crawled into her bed, fresh from the bathroom and the teeth-licking run.

AND IT STILL ISN'T WORKING.

I'm sorry.

Comments

[Rainy Daisy]

I think I just burned a few hundred calories reading this post.

[Gwen]

I’d give that performance one snap in a circle. Next time–more parenthetical non sequitur tangents, please. Those are my favorite, now that my tongue has decided to reject cheese.

I’m glad to know that you weren’t talking about you and running, that it’s a hypothetical yellow toothed girl, because if it were you, I’d have to remove the needle from your arm, gently, and stand you in front of a mirror where I’d show you what I see–neat, straight teeth, clear, bright skin, miles and miles of gorgeous hair, charm and spirit and substance beneath the fizzy bubbles, soul. And that’d require an expensive plane ticket and be exhausting and all, so run on, hypothetical girl. Find yourself a wild strawberry patch and some forest sprites and there, in that quiet space between panting breaths, the secrets of the universe will be revealed.

[Andrea (@shutterbitch)]

Heathers.

Running can be quite zen, hypothetical girl. But I like what Gwen said.

[alonewithcats]

I’m not cool enough to know from where the quote comes. I’m also not cool enough to be OK with ending sentences with prepositions. I guess that means you don’t want to know me. Sadness.