By the time we stopped talking, my instant messenger tells me it's 6:04.
My friend Rachel, she tells me she has a dog next door that sounds like a Rooster.
This was just after she tells me she's "hungover as fuck".
On a Wednesday.
I tell her that's my kind of person.
It's kind funny really. Sometimes, when you haven't talked to a person in almost a decade, most of the time conversations start with words like "Hi" and "How" and "You" and "Been".
It's one O'clock in the afternoon and over an instant message on Facebook, I tell her to tell me more about this dog that sounds like a Rooster.
"It's this dog that barks all fucking day!" She tells me. "It's actually a poodle. I've been having these weird dreams about killing it lately." She says.
She wants to know if I think she sounds like a serial killer.
I tell her I just think she needs some peace and quiet.
It's funny, but when you take a moment to realize the life that once was, you realize the life that once was. If that makes sense.
Go ahead, just ask any Psychology major and they'll tell you "long term memory", this is used to remember things like, your home address growing up, or your seven digit telephone number when you were twelve. It's different than sensory memory. Most sensory memories, they last for only a few seconds.
Rachel, this friend of mine, she tells me about the time she jumped out of a four story window and broke her heel bone in half.
I ask her why the fuck she would do that.
She tells me, "I don't know. I don't remember, I was drunk dude."
I write back telling her she must have some balls when she drinks.
She writes back, "I was drunk. I don't remember, remember?"
It's now two O'clock and nothing but infomercials and soap operas plague my T.V. screen.
Kevin Trudeau tells me the thing I didn't know about cancer, it can be cured by eating Onions and Carrots and Asparagus, but only if I blend it with whole milk.
Rachel shows me a picture of me and my friend Stacey at 18 years old.
I write back telling her that can't be me. The person I'm looking at is then and young and ride a skateboard.
I tell Rachel, "Life was simple dude. Before it smacked us in the face with it's penis.
The television tells me to call within the next twenty seconds to get express delivery for a Banana slicer.
Rachel writes back, "Yup. Life has a penis. It's shaft is long and ugly and will fucking smack you in the face when you least expect it.
This advertisement, it tells me that a banana slicer makes the perfect Valentines Day present. Also, kids love slicing their banana. It's fun, it's easy, it's only 9.95.
For a fucking Banana Slicer.
Rachel, She tells me about this big house she moved into. She says it has five bedrooms and three bathrooms and she even had a jacuzzi in her bedroom.
"I eventually ended up moving into a closet downstairs." She writes.
I ask her why the fuck she did that.
She tells me cause her bedroom was too big.
At a quarter after three, channel thirteen tells me I should buy a Jazzy Scooter. Now it's more affordable and easy to use and I can ride around grocery stores all day without any stress on my legs.
Rachel and I, We talk about sneaking out of bedroom windows and cruising main streets and smoking rolled up cigarettes.
We talk about people we knew in High School.
When we were both Younger.
She tells me she still sees friends in bars and places she least expects.
She tells me, "Like Jason Lopez, I haven't seen him in fucking forever and he's just sitting there in the bar."
Over an instant message I ask her if he looks the same.
She tells me he does. He always does.
Go ahead, ask any physically major, and they'll tell you that memory is malleable, that it tends to decay with age. Any Psychology major will tell you to stay sharp by reading articles on the riddles of recollection.
After a commercial for Hair Tonic and underarm deodorant, Rachel tells me her memory of the old days are kind of hazy.
I tell her try mixing that with mushrooms and ecstasy.
It's over an instant message I ask her what her plans are for the day.
"I think I'm just gonna stay in bed." She writes.
She reminds me she's hungover as fuck.
While Days of our Lives tells me life is like a sand through an hour glass, Rachel tells me she used to go to the same Roller Skating Rink I did.
I tell her, "Once during Cheek Cheek Balk Balk Waddle Waddle Waddle, I slipped and fell and bruised my hip pretty bad. Then I played the wounded soldier card and skated with all girls during the snowball."
Rachel tells me she's about ready to piss herself because she's laughing too hard.
We spend the next hour talking about Roller Skating Rinks and walking into neighbors houses to grab juice boxes and frozen dinners without asking permission.
We talk about shitty local bands we used to play in and see.
"One of the kids, Andrew Peck," Rachel writes " Is now a fucking Opera Singer." She wants to know if I believe that shit.
I remind her about the time he dedicated a song to her and called her a bitch in front of everyone.
"How could I forget." She writes.
While Cameron and Abby finally go out and Abby finds a note from another secret admirer and Cameron gets jealous, while all of this sand spins down an hour glass, Rachel and I discuss tequila and hot sauce and how they would both go great together.
I tell her to put a drop of Tequila on her wrist and lick it in place of salt.
Over an instant message she tells me, "Oh, I'm totally gonna do that!"
Over the next two hours we talk about old boyfriends and girlfriends and old cars we used to have.
She tells me a story about the time someone put a note on her car saying, "Hey, you don't know me, but I've been watching you from a distance while you work. You can actually see me right now if you look to your left."
My friend Rachel, she tells me she just got in her car and drove home going 90 miles an hour on the Rexburg city streets. She says a friend over the phone begged and pleaded and told her not to go home but she did anyway. When she finally got out of her car, while her heart was beating 90 miles an hour, she runs to her door and fumbles for her keys.
Rachel tells me it was just our friend Stacey who wrote the note and followed her car.
Over an instant message, I tell Rachel I'm going to piss my pants .
We spend the next forty five minutes laughing with tears in our eyes and pissing our pants and bed sheets.
I tell Rachel my Levi's smell like piss, Rachel tells me her bed smells like Urine.
After shamwow tells me it will leave my car clean and clean of those annoying water marks, Rachel tells me she's going to send me a bottle of Fernet.
"It's like Jaeger without the sugar." She tells me.
I tell her I'm totally down cause it's fucking illegal in Utah.
We talk about masturbation and men who roll off of couches trying to lick their own balls.
I tell her I once threw out my hip trying to do the same thing. Then I tell her I'm kidding.
" Oh, that's too bad, cause if I had a dick...", Rachel writes, "I would totally try to suck it."
I tell her I was only kidding about rolling off the couch and hurting my hip. Then I tell her I was just kidding again.
After five fucking hours of dogs who bark like roosters and missing juice box's from fridges.
After Roller Skating and Cheek Cheek Balk Balks, and bruised hips and snowballs with girls.
After my pants smell like piss and her bed smells like Urine and men try to lick their own balls, after five hours that felt like two, and shitty Soap Operas and infomercials,
I tell Rachel I remember how amazing it is knowing her.
By the time we stop talking, my instant messenger tells me it's 6:04
Go ahead, just ask any phsycology major and they'll tell you "long term memory", this is used to remember things like, your home address growing up, or your seven digit telephone number when you were twelve. It's different than sensory memory. Most sensory memories, they last for only a few seconds.
Go ahead, ask any Psychology major, and they'll tell you that memory is malleable, that it tends to decay with age. Any Psychology major will tell you to stay sharp by reading articles on the riddles of recollection.
I'd rather just talk to Rachel.
And piss my Levi's.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
On my left, is my Mother who slides tator tots in an oven. On my right is the master bedroom where my Step Father lays in bed
"That is fucking disgusting!" My mom says.
"Honey, would come fill up my mug?" He says.
Separating myself from the smell of tator tots and last nights Spaghetti with Meat Sauce, is the living room with a fifty inch flat screen television.
I turn up the volume and watch Baltimore score another Touchdown on T.V.
"Mother Fucker!" My step dad says.
He's a Big Forty Niners fan.
Mom sets the timer on the oven for thirty five minutes. She tells me you always cook Tator Tots longer than the bag tells you. It has something to do with the chemicals and preservatives in the potatoes.
"You gonna fill up my mug or not?" My Step dad shouts from the room.
The Forty Niners have the ball and it's now third and six.
In between farts and sprays from an aerosol can, my Step Father shouts words like, "Come" and "On" and "cocksuckers"
Mom just stands there and mixes Ketchup with Mayonnaise.
"I'm not coming in there till the smells is gone!" My mom says.
Having a type of blood cancer like my step dad has, isn't a very funny thing at all.
In fact my mom tells me the medication he takes is probably what's making his farts smell so bad.
Still, sitting here on a black leather couch while Baltimore runs for a first down, I can't help but sit there and laugh.
"You can come in the room now?" My step dad says. "I think the smell is gone."
My mom presses down on a rolled up ball of hamburger.
"That's what you said last time dear." She says.
"I promise, this time it's not that bad." He says.
During a time out I watch a commercial about farmers and Dodge pickup trucks.
"Can you come get my mug now please." My Step dad says.
Walking behind me I hear my moms sandals clippity clap as she walks by.
"It smells like a dog just shit all over the carpet!" She says.
"Sorry, I had another one I couldn't hold any longer. You missed your window." He says, "How 'bout that mug?"
"No!" My mom says "You and your mug can just sit here and marinade in it."
Her sandals clippity clap past me and back into the kitchen.
Pulling a George Forman grill from the cupboard above, she plugs it in and lets it heat up.
In front of the fifty inch flat screen television, I sit and watch as Colin Kapernick of the San Francisco Forty Niners runs the ball into the endzone and scores a touchdown.
"Alright!" my step dad yells from the bedroom.
I stand up and decide that I will grab the mug for him.
Inside a bedroom with a California King and and tray tables and gas pills, My step dad lies on the bed with a grin on his face.
"It doesn't smell to bad in here." I tell him.
"Not yet it doesn't." He says.
I ask him if I can take his mug for him.
"No, that's okay. I'll let you mother do that." He says.
I simply shrug my shoulders and get back to the fifty inch flat screen television and Baltimore and San Francisco.
Shouting from the bedroom my Step Dad says, "Honey, can you come get my mug now?"
"Yeah mom, it doesn't even smell in there anymore. I promise." I tell her.
"You better not be shitting me!" My mom says. "No pun intended."
She puts three hamburger patties on the George Forman grill and pulls the lid down.
I hear her sandals clippity clop past me and back into the bedroom.
My Step Dad farts.
"I'm sorry, I just couldn't hold that one any longer neither." He says. This time I can hear the laughter in his voice.
"Now hows about that mug." He says.