The Good Word of Sprout

Name:
Location: Chicago, Illinois, United States

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Pear-Juicy

"You weren't just looking at that pear, you were devouring it with your eyes."

"Yes. Yes. I was thinking that that pear has an appealing rose hue, like your ass."

"Don't compare my ass to a pear. You think it sags. You think it's spotty. You think it has a poisonous core. Poisonous seeds."

"Poisonous? Not in a bad way. Your ass is a pear in ripeness, ripe color. And in juiciness. Not in shape. It's not pear-shaped. It's pear-juicy."

"Pear-juicy?"

"Pear-juicy. Run-down-my-chin juicy. I'd like to bite into it."

"Too bad. I'm going to the store."

"For pears?"

"For tampons."

"Oh."

"For tampons and pears."

"Oh!"
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Saturday, February 27, 2010

Advice and Noses

Instead of judging, a friend suggested I might be happier just describing.

"As in your nose," I said.

"Yes," she said, "what about my nose?"

"It's so capable of of gathering and distributing a vast quantity of olfactory memories. Memories of your grandmother's house, memories of that night I adopted a baby skunk and later that night disowned it for sassing me."

"Are you saying my nose is big. Too big? You think my nostrils are giant repositories? Do you think...are you going to sell me to Dyson?"

"I don't think Dyson would buy you. You don't suck enough."

Not funny, apparently.

"Your nose is wonderful," I said. "I love it."

"That's judgmental."

"No, that's descriptive."
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Tuesday, December 08, 2009

A Mind Problem Compounded

"I love you," she says, "but I need to know that we have a future together. I need to know that you love me, that you love me, love me, love me, me..."

Electric shock. What to say? Fear. Now seconds have passed, and she just stares at me. Why does she have to be so ugly when she sleeps? Her mouth looks like she's had a stroke. I'm sure I'm not attractive when I sleep. I probably look like I have rabies. Maybe I shouldn't be...

"Well?" she says.

Oh God.

"Maybe in a few years..." You'll have a stroke and it will even out your sleep face. Wait, do I plan to be with her until she has a stroke?

Yes, and afterwards, when her sleep face is normal or twice as bad.

She pales. Here it comes.

"In a few years? In a few fucking years?" She leaves in tears and doesn't even bother to slam the door.

Why, mind, why do you do this to me?
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Monday, August 03, 2009

Bedtime dialogue

Sometimes I wear a shirt and tie to bed so I look good in my dreams so I don't wake up insecure.

Do you wear pants?

No, I feel good enough without them.

What do you tuck your shirt into?

Something that doubles as a belt, evidently.

How does that work -- you have to tie it or you punch holes in it?

Oh, not into piercings. I pull it tight and tuck it. I don't have quite enough to tie.

Ever modest, you.
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Thursday, April 09, 2009

Conversation after Church

"Do you know her name?" Ed asked me.

"What the fuck, Ed? Why do I need to know her name? Or she mine? I can see by her mouth, hear by her words that ours have been completing each other for millennia."

"I know her name." Ed smiled.

God I hate it when Ed smiles. He has a pedosmile: all lips, no teeth, predatory eyes.

"What is it?"

"Why do you need to know? Yours have been completing each other for millenniums. You know what's been completing mine for millenniums?"

"No."

"Your grandma. Your grandmas. Both your grandmas."

"What's her name, Ed?"

He smiled again. I fought the urge to curl up, my lips curling down.

"Lilia." Tongue flick.

Lilia. Nice. Even when Ed says it while flicking his tongue.
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Monday, December 10, 2007

Dialogue: Blogger and Blog Critic

I will eat tamales for dinner tonight.

No one cares about your dinner.

I bought these tamales from the Tamale Guy at a bar a month ago. The tamale guy carries three flavors of tamales: cheese, pork, and mystery. Mine are pork. I froze them, and two nights ago I put them in my refrigerator to defrost.

No one cares about your dinner.

Hey buddy. Do you mind not interrupting me? I'm telling people a story about tamales that ends with me eating them (the tamales).

No one cares about your dinner.

Hey, what's your problem? What are you, a blog critic?

Yes. And what you're writing is crap.

Did you always want to be blogger, but your life bores people? Maybe you just have low self-esteem, and you think no one would ever read about you. Hey, you're a human being. You're entitled to a blog.

I maintain six blogs. I update them every day. One of them is dedicated to exposing people who clutter the internet with mundane crap. That is you.

Oh, so you're just a prick.

Basically.
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Thursday, November 15, 2007

Career Counselor

A sly voice inside my head says, "You call yourself a writer?"

"Yes," I say.

"You know, when you say, 'I'm a writer' to people at bars when they ask what you do for a living."

"Yeah."

The voice coughs, "Hah-EH!" And then laughs, "Hah-eh-eh! Hah-eh-eh!"

My teeth grate. "Dickhead, dickhead in my mind, shut up. Ladies don't ask where the majority my of income comes from. Women ask what I do, what I consider myself."

"Hah-eh-eh. Well...then write."

"I'd like to write, but I'm fucking tired," I say. "I work. I have another job. It pays the bills. I'm entitled to watch TV. I'm entitled to not poke and prod at the most sensitive parts of my brain just for a jumble of words which may or may not be any good."

"Eh, excuse me," the voice says. "I just thought the term 'writer' was derived from the verb 'to write.' As in 'one who writes.' But now I understand that 'writer' means one who someday aspires to write, but today is too fucking tired from paying the bills."

"Fuck you." I slap myself in the side of the head. Pain breaks over my right ear.

"You're only fucking yourself," the voice whispers.

My vision blurs, and the world spins. I fall off my chair. I hit the floor hard, right on my left elbow. It hurts. God, does it hurt. I might have hit myself too hard.

This is no way to go about life.

On the bright side, the voice is gone.
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Thursday, November 16, 2006

Dialogue between writer and imaginary agent


“I don’t think I’m very good at writing.”


“What are you talking about? You’re great at writing. You just need to do it more.”


"I need to do it more for sure. And by 'do it,' I mean have sex, with whoever you got, like some kind of crazy girl who thinks she's a poet, and she probably is a poet, but I'll give you five dollars..."


"You need to write more."


“But no one ever published anything I wrote, except for that poem, which you said was saccharine, and they didn't pay me anything, and they misspelled my name...”


"Listen to me and listen to me closely. This is the time in your life when you can publish. Hormones impaired all the work you did in high school. You rushed all the work in college because you wanted to drink. And since you've been working, you're wasting energy on paying bills. You’ve shown the ability, now you just need to put in the time. I have faith in you. I put my faith into you. You.”


“Me...But what about all the others that have put in the time since they were children. They’re all better than me. More natural.”


“These days it's just about market share. No one is better or worse. They’re just different.”


“You’re saying that Scott Fitzgerald wasn’t a better writer than me.”


“Okay. But Scott did a lot of literary slumming in his time. You have talent. You have a way of putting things that’s very distinct and pleasing. Funny too.”


“Thank you.”


“You’re welcome.”


“But I don’t have the drive to become a writer. I can only write for an hour a day. That’s not going to pay the bills.”


“You just need incentive. You can get laid for writing even a lousy book. Laid, baby.”


“Since when have I gotten laid for writing?”


“Since when have you written a lousy book?”


“Good point. So you're saying that the drive should come from being horny?


"Of course. Where do you think all writing comes from?"


"Women in short leather jackets?"


"Exactly"



“Maybe I should give up masturbating.”


“That’s your business.”


“Well, if your hypothesis is correct, if I give up masturbating for a week, I should double my output in writing."


“Assuming not masturbating makes you more horny.”


“Jesus, isn’t that a given?”


“Some people get more horny from masturbating. The repetition. You know, like when the ladies are having a lot of sex...”


“Please. We're not talking about the ladies. People who get more horny from masturbating don't have orgasms.”


“Of course they have orgasms. There’s no point to masturbation without the orgasm.”


“Ha! Haven’t you ever heard of tantric masturbation? Because of the breathing, the whole thing feels like an orgasm, yet nothing comes out.”


“No, I haven't heard.”


“Me neither.”


“That’s funny.”


“Thank you.”


“You’re welcome.”

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