Friday, August 26, 2005
"why do you have PMS, johnny"?
vanessa was typing at our computer. nonchalantly strolling through her myspace world. I was doing the dishes.
I should mention: yesterday I was across the street. I had walked into her house to show her the bruise she had given me on my arm, to which she gleefully socked me on the exact spot, just one more time. after the laughter had subsided, I would call her a 'snaggletooth', which is one of the greatest things I can think of saying. to call someone a 'snaggletooth' is happiness.
soon, I was lazily looking up at the fan, each blade running a circular course around the same span on the ceiling. vanessa noticed I was not quite as festive as usual. not quite as-rad-as-I-should-be. "what's wrong?", she said, as I turned to leave. leaning toward her I sent a simple whisper toward her right ear: "I'm on my period". her laughter was deep. it was complete. I'm guessing I would have seen her entire body shaking were I not shutting the door behind me- making my way toward the sidewalk. I could still hear her through the house as I entered the street. her joyful voice was easily moving across the yard. and her laughter followed me home. it's likely one of the greatest thrills a young comedian can have. only- I'm no comedian. but I was thrilled, nonetheless.
back to the dishes: I was preparing to answer as to why I have PMS. "it's hard to explain", said I. I walked into the next room, sat down, and addressed her to her slumping back and shoulders with total sincerity: "I appreciate you asking. thanks for caring about me. it's just---it would be easier to explain everything to you if you were a boy." and with that, I walked back into the kitchen and put my soppy hands back into the sink.
"oh." I imagined her lips were pouty when she said this. "so....are you having boy problems or just emotional problems?"
"What was the first thing you said?", I uttered between plates clanging in the wet sink.
"boy problems...are you having issues with your junk?"
"ahahah. no. I'm pretty sure the junk is ok."
"oh."
vanessa was fumbling around the computer desk. frisking through papers. "I think I left my cell phone at home. I'll be right back." getting up swiftly, she started to walk behind me and toward the door. wiping down a fork coated with cheese from an enchilada, I muttered, "can you enter your 'turn into a boy closet' and come back as a boy?" "sure", she gleefully replied. making her way through the opening to our basement behind me, vanessa was soon out of site- neatly concealed beyond a closed door. springing out, she arrived back in the kitchen- and she appeared to have a new found masculinity.
"I'm a guy. I have a deep voice." she clowned, one full octave lower then usual.
"did you grow some testicles in there?"
"YEA. I've got some huge balls." and with that, she made quite a keen exit.
I should mention: yesterday I was across the street. I had walked into her house to show her the bruise she had given me on my arm, to which she gleefully socked me on the exact spot, just one more time. after the laughter had subsided, I would call her a 'snaggletooth', which is one of the greatest things I can think of saying. to call someone a 'snaggletooth' is happiness.
soon, I was lazily looking up at the fan, each blade running a circular course around the same span on the ceiling. vanessa noticed I was not quite as festive as usual. not quite as-rad-as-I-should-be. "what's wrong?", she said, as I turned to leave. leaning toward her I sent a simple whisper toward her right ear: "I'm on my period". her laughter was deep. it was complete. I'm guessing I would have seen her entire body shaking were I not shutting the door behind me- making my way toward the sidewalk. I could still hear her through the house as I entered the street. her joyful voice was easily moving across the yard. and her laughter followed me home. it's likely one of the greatest thrills a young comedian can have. only- I'm no comedian. but I was thrilled, nonetheless.
back to the dishes: I was preparing to answer as to why I have PMS. "it's hard to explain", said I. I walked into the next room, sat down, and addressed her to her slumping back and shoulders with total sincerity: "I appreciate you asking. thanks for caring about me. it's just---it would be easier to explain everything to you if you were a boy." and with that, I walked back into the kitchen and put my soppy hands back into the sink.
"oh." I imagined her lips were pouty when she said this. "so....are you having boy problems or just emotional problems?"
"What was the first thing you said?", I uttered between plates clanging in the wet sink.
"boy problems...are you having issues with your junk?"
"ahahah. no. I'm pretty sure the junk is ok."
"oh."
vanessa was fumbling around the computer desk. frisking through papers. "I think I left my cell phone at home. I'll be right back." getting up swiftly, she started to walk behind me and toward the door. wiping down a fork coated with cheese from an enchilada, I muttered, "can you enter your 'turn into a boy closet' and come back as a boy?" "sure", she gleefully replied. making her way through the opening to our basement behind me, vanessa was soon out of site- neatly concealed beyond a closed door. springing out, she arrived back in the kitchen- and she appeared to have a new found masculinity.
"I'm a guy. I have a deep voice." she clowned, one full octave lower then usual.
"did you grow some testicles in there?"
"YEA. I've got some huge balls." and with that, she made quite a keen exit.
