Why I Love Skirts and Godzilla

As a child, I was a tomboy. My sister gets pink, I get blue. She wears the dresses, I wore the pants. She got the Barbie, I got Godzilla. Years later, I have a make-up kit I find more important than my phone, an obsession for shades, a closet full of skirts, and a Godzilla toy.

Let me count the ways I love skirts and Godzilla:

1. With skirts, you never need to worry about leaving your fly open whenever you go to the ladies room.
2. Godzilla is way cooler than any other dinosaurs on TV, I mean, who are the kids  watching nowadays Barney? Bah!
3. Skirts get you freebies. Yes, we have an idea how the male brain works sometimes
4. Godzilla can scare off other city invading creatures and eat all the people he likes, for free!
5. Skirts make you look taller.
6. Godzilla makes King Kong look like a drummer chimpanzee.
7. There are repetitive mention of skirts in cool songs, digs?
8. Godzilla is educational. He was originally an allegory for the nuclear devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. See, toys and television can teach you a lot too.

Kidnap by Alcohol, My Version of Romeo and Juliet

A bar named after a local fruit, two bottles of beer, an ambush from a friend, and some emo cries to match an emo haircut is the newest version of Romeo and Juliet.

The friend ambushes for me to take pictures of emo sepia tone to match the emo bangs, with blue guitar on the side, and a few bottles more, I take the pics. To be viewed by her friends later, which turned out to be good, either from the excellent bar lighting, or from the shaking of my hand, holding her cam phone. And it plays,

Behold this night, still and clear
You look here just like an angel sleeping
I wish I could ease your fears
I would catch the diamond tears you’re weeping
In your eyes I would hide
By your side I could defy
The forces tearing us apart
But reality, as it seems
Looking back, is that our dream
Was fated from the start

Forever true
I’ll see you through

The boyfriend, holding your hand, asking you if you remember, that night, that night with that song. The warm air gives your neurons a slower passage to the brain, and you just don’t remember. He sulks back, and won’t accept the excuses, which makes sense.

Another dream-like evening, and I remember different angles of Red Horse, and a new found love for D-Bar.

Lip Cuts and Coffee Burns

She had realized her lip tasted salty. She ran her tongue over the cut again, and found her mind floating around the tastes yet again, the different taste on her lower lip, which was not at all an accident. It was always soothing during her smoke, a taste to focus on while staring at the empty school in front, or faking a conversation with another. The unfinished smoking area was perfect for these times, empty, and flooding with different smells, the faint scent of old, long deserted buildings, paint from cans lying around, but mostly wood and smoke. It always got her thinking, what if she accidentally burned the entire building down. She did not look like much of an arsonist anyway, in fact, she did not look like much of anything, only sleepy all the time. And it was partially correct. She required very few hours of sleep, and thus, more hours in front of the TV, or at work, or with friends, or thinking about cuts and bruises in her body, or hopefully, actually in the act of making them.

Someone across the hall, going down the stairs, intently looked at her for a while, before waving and calling out her name. She waved back, or more accurately, waved them away. Now was not an ideal time for chit-chat, and besides, she was sure they wouldn’t go near her, for fear of seeing ghosts. There were stories about the office being haunted, and the lights in the area wasn’t installed yet. All the better, she thought. She never listened to accounts of their experiences, not did she care, she was too busy with the stories in her head to be bothered by shadows moving around. And it was quite amusing, fully-grown people going out of the office in packs, all because of that concern, a mere bang of the door given extra meaning. Fear of the dark was for people who had nothing to think of. Nothing troubling, nothing fun in their minds, with enough space for the darkness clad imagination to creep into. They never appeared in front of her, and she doubts she would notice them if they ever did. Here, as long as she had her cup of coffee, her cigarettes, and the frail sound of the music from the office inside, she was fine. God knows it was much better than hearing people talk to themselves in front of the computer, the worst part of that was the talk was not even worth listening to. One is allowed to talk to one’s self if it entertains eavesdroppers she thought. What use is talking to yourself if you can’t even hold your own attention? Would it be for the sake of the ultimate uninteresting conversationalist?

The band from the nearby bar-compound was beginning to play, and her cup was nearly empty. It was time to go in, and hopefully, come back outside for another cup and a few sticks.