Post by citizenmike on Jul 31, 2009 10:26:41 GMT -5
I turn away from the pretty folk singer on stage and take the cigarette to the space between my fingers. I enjoy the poignant sound of her pop as hold my hand up before me.
Fingers.
Short fingers.
Short, plucky fingers.
Short, plucky, little fingers.
You can't play guitar with fingers this short and plucky.
You can't fuck a woman with fingers this short and plucky.
I don't like my fingers.
I watch as the burn melts the paper around my Marlboro, slowly revealing ash perfectly shaped and held up by nothing but contorted gravity. In my view, I catch the pretty folk singer slanted towards
the left of my fading cigarette.
I turn away.
I don't like my fingers.
You can't work with fingers this short and plucky; I scoff, not enough reach, they say.
You can't fuck with fingers these short and plucky; I scoff, the size of a man is measured by the fingers in his hand, they say.
Fuck them.
What a cruel joke!
What a cruel joke conjured by only the most deprived of men. Assholes.
I get it now! It's always boils down to comfort and insecurity. Some asshole must have had a penis so big that no woman wanted to fuck him... Yeah, that's it. So, he left town, changed his name, and told a bunch of insecure nitwits that women love big dicks... "The bigger the better!", the Man must have remarked. "Really?", queried the insecure. "Yes, trust me I know... Now listen to my stories for carnal conquest!". The asshole.
I only pity the fools who believe that shit... Fools, like me.
But who can blame me? Its not my fault that something that stupid caught on and infected the world.
There's only one name that comes across my pseudo-intellectual that isn't far the same from that poor, unfortunate, big dicked bastard... Hitler!
Yeah, fucking Hitler.
A cruel man who sought comfort in killing millions on account of his insecurity.
Those blind fools who follow his whim like little lost dogs.
I tip the ashes of my cigarette into the ashtray; they fall ever so delicately- its beautiful really.
I've lost all attention I had for the pretty folk singer on stage.
I should go home.
I pull the cigarette back into my lips and draw hard for one final drag. I keep in the smoke as I burn the cigarette out on the ashtray. It's too soft and too hard to kill. The slightest touch only compresses and distorts its shape.
Its ugly.
I'm better off killing it with the heel of my boot- but I'm not outside, and my fingers already smell like shit.
My fingers.
My damn fingers.
My short, damn, fingers.
My plucky, short, damn, fingers.
Fuck me.
I rise from my seat and as I approach the door, I stop.
I'm not like this- this isn't me...
Has the twisted ways of the world I know crush me into this? An angry, insecure, cigarette butt.
Fuck this, I already have enough problems!
Before I know it, I'm lighting another stick. I take the cigarette from my lips, throw it down, as I scream, "What the fuck!", so loud that I swear the whole bar can hear me.
Great, I shrug with self-deprecating sarcasm.
The pretty folk singer stops playing and looks at me.
The crowd in the bar stops what their doing and looks at me.
Fuck me. I turn around and walk away.
I want to go home. I can listen to pretty folk singers there.
The rain outside crashes over me unexpectedly.
Why didn't I see this when I was inside? There were fucking windows for God's sake!
I cover my head with my jacket as I step into the streets. Behind me, I hear a faint call, "What's the matter?"
I turn around and its the pretty folk singer.
I wonder what she's doing in the rain with me. A stranger facing another.
I smile and reply, "Nothing. I'm sorry for interrupting your set with my outburst." I turn away and venture deeper into the rain.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play in the rain?"
I stop and turn to her again as I reply, "Yes she did. Good night."
The pretty folk singer towards me and said, "You're not going anywhere, mister!"
"Any why's that?"
"I stopped my set to see what was wrong you!"
"You're joking right?"
She looks at me timidly as she replies, "Are you?"
I draw myself towards her and wave my arms in the air- an expressions I've seen in way too many movies- and shout, "This is a dream right? I'm imagining all this right? I'm out here, talking into empty space, while you're in their singing right?"
She slaps me hard across the face that I stumble and fall.
I look up at her as she points her finger into my face as she grumbles, "I took my time to come out here to check on someone I don't know from shit, so you better start talking, because I just cost myself a night's pay!"
I stick my hand to her face and say, "Look at my fingers!"
"What?", she askes me in an angered confusion.
"Just look at my hand, ok!"
"I'm looking at it, but I don't know what exactly I'm looking at."
"My fingers...", I stumble with my words, in utter awe of the entire event. "Are they too small?"
"Too small for what?"
I think for a moment before coming back with "To play guitar."
The pretty folk singer reaches her hand out to me.
I take it and she assists me to my feet.
She places her hand before mine. Her fingers are smaller, naturally. And her hands feels cold, soft, and calm against mine.
"Does that answer your question?"
"It does for now..."
Fingers.
Short fingers.
Short, plucky fingers.
Short, plucky, little fingers.
You can't play guitar with fingers this short and plucky.
You can't fuck a woman with fingers this short and plucky.
I don't like my fingers.
I watch as the burn melts the paper around my Marlboro, slowly revealing ash perfectly shaped and held up by nothing but contorted gravity. In my view, I catch the pretty folk singer slanted towards
the left of my fading cigarette.
I turn away.
I don't like my fingers.
You can't work with fingers this short and plucky; I scoff, not enough reach, they say.
You can't fuck with fingers these short and plucky; I scoff, the size of a man is measured by the fingers in his hand, they say.
Fuck them.
What a cruel joke!
What a cruel joke conjured by only the most deprived of men. Assholes.
I get it now! It's always boils down to comfort and insecurity. Some asshole must have had a penis so big that no woman wanted to fuck him... Yeah, that's it. So, he left town, changed his name, and told a bunch of insecure nitwits that women love big dicks... "The bigger the better!", the Man must have remarked. "Really?", queried the insecure. "Yes, trust me I know... Now listen to my stories for carnal conquest!". The asshole.
I only pity the fools who believe that shit... Fools, like me.
But who can blame me? Its not my fault that something that stupid caught on and infected the world.
There's only one name that comes across my pseudo-intellectual that isn't far the same from that poor, unfortunate, big dicked bastard... Hitler!
Yeah, fucking Hitler.
A cruel man who sought comfort in killing millions on account of his insecurity.
Those blind fools who follow his whim like little lost dogs.
I tip the ashes of my cigarette into the ashtray; they fall ever so delicately- its beautiful really.
I've lost all attention I had for the pretty folk singer on stage.
I should go home.
I pull the cigarette back into my lips and draw hard for one final drag. I keep in the smoke as I burn the cigarette out on the ashtray. It's too soft and too hard to kill. The slightest touch only compresses and distorts its shape.
Its ugly.
I'm better off killing it with the heel of my boot- but I'm not outside, and my fingers already smell like shit.
My fingers.
My damn fingers.
My short, damn, fingers.
My plucky, short, damn, fingers.
Fuck me.
I rise from my seat and as I approach the door, I stop.
I'm not like this- this isn't me...
Has the twisted ways of the world I know crush me into this? An angry, insecure, cigarette butt.
Fuck this, I already have enough problems!
Before I know it, I'm lighting another stick. I take the cigarette from my lips, throw it down, as I scream, "What the fuck!", so loud that I swear the whole bar can hear me.
Great, I shrug with self-deprecating sarcasm.
The pretty folk singer stops playing and looks at me.
The crowd in the bar stops what their doing and looks at me.
Fuck me. I turn around and walk away.
I want to go home. I can listen to pretty folk singers there.
The rain outside crashes over me unexpectedly.
Why didn't I see this when I was inside? There were fucking windows for God's sake!
I cover my head with my jacket as I step into the streets. Behind me, I hear a faint call, "What's the matter?"
I turn around and its the pretty folk singer.
I wonder what she's doing in the rain with me. A stranger facing another.
I smile and reply, "Nothing. I'm sorry for interrupting your set with my outburst." I turn away and venture deeper into the rain.
"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play in the rain?"
I stop and turn to her again as I reply, "Yes she did. Good night."
The pretty folk singer towards me and said, "You're not going anywhere, mister!"
"Any why's that?"
"I stopped my set to see what was wrong you!"
"You're joking right?"
She looks at me timidly as she replies, "Are you?"
I draw myself towards her and wave my arms in the air- an expressions I've seen in way too many movies- and shout, "This is a dream right? I'm imagining all this right? I'm out here, talking into empty space, while you're in their singing right?"
She slaps me hard across the face that I stumble and fall.
I look up at her as she points her finger into my face as she grumbles, "I took my time to come out here to check on someone I don't know from shit, so you better start talking, because I just cost myself a night's pay!"
I stick my hand to her face and say, "Look at my fingers!"
"What?", she askes me in an angered confusion.
"Just look at my hand, ok!"
"I'm looking at it, but I don't know what exactly I'm looking at."
"My fingers...", I stumble with my words, in utter awe of the entire event. "Are they too small?"
"Too small for what?"
I think for a moment before coming back with "To play guitar."
The pretty folk singer reaches her hand out to me.
I take it and she assists me to my feet.
She places her hand before mine. Her fingers are smaller, naturally. And her hands feels cold, soft, and calm against mine.
"Does that answer your question?"
"It does for now..."