I’ve lost my touch with the South Africans. I’ve forgotten how to communicate with them. Cold fusion supposedly happens at room temperature? It’s well above that in any room now and I don’t know what to say to them anymore. I just do stupid shit like struggle with my outer garments, which are invariably seared to my skin with the sticky-fusion properties of sweat. What’s special about water? my junior high science teacher asked. After many wrong answers from the class, including, surprisingly, mine (in junior high there were a few bubblegum chewing friends I only managed to keep because I let them copy my science homework—idiots. how much gum and lipgloss can you pass around, you little whores? and do i really care enough about gossip to tolerate hanging out with you after school? yes. yes i do.), he just told us: it sticks. Very well, it sticks to the bodies of young, naked girls as they climb out of the shower, hopefully slipping, and falling on their backs. It sticks, but not as much as the memory of you being the biggest sick fuck, ever. WATER STICKS. Well fine, but so does the image of a short and pale polack, about to faint; it sticks onto death, though, inevitably, failing to make headline news: one more girl with too little fluid to make adequate small talk with the South Africans, yet another momentary loss of vision--kerplunk.
Posted by caroline at July 18, 2006 6:22 PM