Freakday Night, February 21, 2014

She reminds me of hot helium and colored corn syrup. She talks like wax paper over pink taffy, not even the salt water kind, more ingenuine and mass produced by machines. Tasteless. She dreams like a plastic doll in a glittery box and I dreamt of her last night.

I dreamt that she approached me at a party, faking a smile and conjuring up this JELLO joy from the appetizer table to invite me to some fictitious girlie sleep over that might be, “So much fun!” She giggled like a wind up toy pony (teeth, tail and all) and I threw down my coconut shrimp but clutched my deep tall glass of red wine as I backed away from this strange creature I would never call a friend, no matter how many other people I know like her.
And so I made my sentiments known.

“Stop right there. I just have to tell you already that I really can’t stand you and will do everything I can, including right now, to stay as far away from you socially as possible. Really. I’d rather eat gravel than associate myself with you, which means that I should probably do something about that. My aversion to you is so great, the only possible reason you exist in my life is that I need to use you as a character in a novel. And so I’ll do this, because I know my reaction to you is so impolite and potentially unfair, that if I indeed write a novel and you are in it in any way shape or form, and I actually get paid for its publication, I will write you some kind of bonus check and we’ll consider it redemption.”

From there my brain whirled up a murder mystery, and she was the victim. Right off the bat. The beginning of the story, she is found dead, right in the middle of a cocktail party, and everyone would assume I did it because I was the only person anyone knew who didn’t like her. But it wasn’t me. So who hated her enough to want her dead? And so I decided to find out who could possibly do such a great job pretending to like this horrible excuse for a woman all these years…

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7 thoughts on “Freakday Night, February 21, 2014

  1. I think you should tell us more about this woman – she must be fascinatingly awful to spark off so much great creativity. I get worried about using real people when I write – I’m sure that Karma would push them to buy the book and hate me forever and put dead fish in my letter box and stalk me at the market and… yeah. Reality check.

    1. 😝 it’s rare someone could truly hate me forever, just as it’s truly rare for me to hate anyone. This particular person simply rubs me the wrong way every single time I meet her and it’s assumed I am to just love this person. But alas, I don’t trust her. There is something fake and rehearsed about her. She possesses a dangerous insecurity that makes me itch. So, to your point, if she provokes such “creativity” I might as well take advantage and write her into a murder mystery or an existentialist novel. Maybe that would be even better. Get all Dosteovsky on her.

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