Posts tagged Creative writing
Posts tagged Creative writing
I’ve always had a strong love and natural affinity for animals. If it didn’t make me sound like a complete serial killer I’d even venture to say that I like animals better than most humans. But since I don’t want to come across as a murderer I’ll just say I enjoy the company of animals (in a nonsexual way I can’t express that enough) and I don’t have a torture chamber in my basement.
When I was three years old my parents gifted me with a cat one fine Christmas morning. I had been asking for a kitten for months and since I was becoming more and more responsible with each passing day, which was evident by my almost mastering use of the toilet, they felt I was old enough to care for a precious, defenseless animal. What my parents got me wasn’t exactly a kitten, he was a two year old orange tabby they had rescued from a local shelter. He reminded me of Garfield, if Garfield were evil. I didn’t mind, I immediately fell in love with him at first sight.
He looked like he had lived a tough life previous to coming to our home and it showed in his actions. He had a real “fuck you” attitude and a sense of danger about him. At any moment I felt like he could kill me. He was like the feline James Dean, except not nearly as handsome and he didn’t end up dying in a car accident. This cat really hated humans which makes me wonder why the fuck, out of all the animals at the shelter, my parents picked him for a little girl who wanted to dress him up in fancy outfits and put socks on his feet. That shit is adorable and hilarious and for some reason my cat and I weren’t on the same page about this.
The year I was thirteen started off a good one. My body and mind were changing from that of a fat, clumsy girl into that of a fat, soon to be loving vodka woman. At first this process horrified and disturbed me, but I was slowing accepting that my breasts were going to be a constant part of my life and I was OK with that. I had developed a friendly relationship with them and was ready to use them for other things besides self esteem killers and tear inducers. I wanted them to make friends with the other kids in school and be part of the popular cliche that held up liquor stores and was defiant of teachers. I was not a girl, not yet a woman, but I was growing up. I had even reached the point where it was no longer awkward for me to ask my dad to pick up tampons for me at the grocery store.
Me: Dad, my uterus is purging itself again!
Dad: Please… don’t tell me this.
Me: I need you to pick me up some tampons!
Dad: Why do you do this to me?
Me: Also I could use some pads! The extra long, overnight kind for heavy flow! Love you!
When I was ten years old I was best friends with my neighbor Walter. I was madly, unconditionally and pathetically in love with him. I had vivid dreams of us getting married and having potato sack races with with our adopted Asian babies at family reunions. Unfortunately when it came to me, Walter thought of me strictly as a friend. If that wasn’t bad enough he treated me like I had a penis.
“Hey dude!” he would say as a greeting and punch me hard in the arm.
“I have a pair of working ovaries ya know!” I’d say quietly to myself as I rubbed the newly developing bruise on my bicep. This was of course a lie since I hadn’t entered puberty yet and my ovaries were as dormant as a diabetic bear in hibernation.
“Huh?” he’d ask distracted.
“GI Joe! Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles! MacGyver! Love me!” I’d respond in a way that I hope showed him I was completely cool with him thinking I was a boy and the fact that he didn’t want to dry hump me or my ovaries.
The summer I was ten years old my mom signed me up to take horseback riding lessons. I have no idea why. Maybe it was because my parents wanted me to be considered good at a ”sport”, any sport. Since I have the hand eye coordination skills of Helen Keller I wasn’t good at softball, flag football or even thumb wrestling and they had simply reached their last resort of athletic activity, riding domesticated animals. Or maybe it was because we were a middle class white family from the suburbs and my parents had finally decided we better start acting like it.
At first I was hesitant about taking lessons because I thought it would interfere with my summer of being fat and laying on the couch like a hedonist. Also a part of me couldn’t help but feel a little afraid of those giant clopping animals, well not them, but their penises. Like most ten year olds who aren’t Heidi Fleiss I was terrified of giant swinging animal genitalia. The year before on the playground an older boy tried teaching my friends and I about the birds and the bees. Being the gross, naive children that we were, their were soon hushed whispers about people having sex with animals. “Happens all the time,” the boy told us with a knowing smile. ”It’s the number one cause of death for porn stars.” I believed every word, “Oh those poor women and their stretched labias!” I would ooh. The thought revolted me even though I wasn’t entirely sure what sex was at the time. For some reason I pictured a naked woman wearing a top hat seductively spanking a horse. That image alone was enough to forever traumatize me.
This is a story about a ridiculous incident that almost drove me straight into the arms of the closest mental institution. It sounds so crazy, but honest to God it’s the truth. While I was living with Vera in Queens, NY a lot of strange and wonderful things happened.
Vera was a sweet woman who almost made living in Queens bearable. She was like a kindly, old grandmother who always seemed to be around whether I wanted her to or not. I considered her to be my geriatric, senile guardian angel. She didn’t work so she had a lot of time on her hands. She seemed to supplement her income mostly from the exorbitant rent I paid for living in her living room and from babysitting every child over the age of fetus in the entire neighborhood.
One day, after living in Queens for about two months, I was laying around my bedroom watching
Mighty Morphin Power Rangers Oprah when I heard a tentative knock on my door. I opened it to find a young boy staring up at me expectantly. I assumed he was one of the 47 children Vera babysit for on a daily basis and had simply gotten lost in the crowd. He looked a lot like Will Smith, if Will Smith were a twelve year old rapist. I immediately knew he was going to be trouble. Instead of asking him what I really wanted to, “What the fuck do you want?” I went with the much smoother more appropriate, “What’s up dawg?” I waited for him to say something, but he just stood there silently staring at me. I had no idea what he wanted. Should I invite him in for some milk in cookies? Or should I scream “Stranger danger!”, slam the door in his face and hide in the closet and pretend nobody was home? I wasn’t sure what protocal to follow in order to proceed with this interaction.
He continued to stare at me with the same intensity as Rosie O’Donnell if she were looking at an issue of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. I started to feel a little self conscious. I looked down and was saddened at the sight of my ensemble. I had on a reindeer sweatshirt my mom made for me in the 5th grade that was covered in stains from a drunken Taco Bell binge from the night before and an old pair of high school gym shorts. The gym shorts had seen better days and had shrunk from repeat washings and were now so small if I did a jumping jack my vagina was one clitoris’s length away from popping out and wishing this boy a good morning. I felt vaguely like a pedophile and was nervous the cops would be knocking on my door later that evening and arresting me for indecent exposure. I nonchalantly tried to stretch my sweatshirt over my hips in case my vagina felt up for a game of peek a boo.