Archive for March, 2008|Monthly archive page


“Don’t you motherfuckers see the three signs that says this is express? There’s one up there” Noah pointed into the air a few feet away from the customer service desk where a sign hung from the roof “And one there” Noah pointed at the standing sign protruding in clear vision “and not to mention the one on the fucking register.”



I raised my glass into the air, but I questioned my own existence. Surely, someone could hear me screaming as loud as I could into the empty home. The question wasn’t whether I existed, it was whether I had been living my life at all. As I stared at the token truth, myself in a mirror, I wondered why my one hadn’t noticed that I am her one, too. Some loves are meant to take time, and I have plenty. I’ll sit and wait as long as it takes.

Fun with Registers

The cash register’s belt stood silently and still, as the power switch switched itself back and forth. Nothing made a difference. On and off somehow mean the same thing to a machine who forgot what ones and zeroes were. Flipping back and forth continued, but the faster pace still didn’t change a thing.

A slam of a fist onto the rubbery surface may have made a loud “KERPLUNK,” but the machine didn’t listen; another language might work. The cashier looked at his rosetta stone collection, but “broken cash registers” was nowhere to be found.

No holiday would be complete without millions of intelligent shoppers fighting over out of date items in the middle of the aisles.

Customers backed up waiting to be released, like the flood of fans waiting to get tickets to the next big concert that sold out before they got there. The pacing quickly outmatched the turtles placing items against the hare with a broken leg.

As the blood boils, the lower chamber of the volcano grows uneasy to a fit of rage. Scoliosis collects the heat in the curved back which soon travels to the hands through the bursting capillaries. An apothecary of cures to the inefficiency develops over researched anger.

A burner on the gas stove lit to a bluish gray flame. (For now, just look away from the water on the inside of the pot; I’ve heard water doesn’t boil when looking at it.)

Too much pressure sends an eruption with emotion turning the fist into a sledgehammer connected to a nascar race star’s race car crashing into a curve and exploding into tiny shards of metallic titanium.

Metal bent a way it never should have with a laser emitting a conundrum of extroverted fragments of light broken into a puzzle whose forte lies in the meaning of life or dismal existential theories no one believes.

All previous movement ceased into a cesspool of inert machinery. Distressed and now quadriplegic in thought, the cashier stared off at the thought of which dinosaurs were buried that didn’t get on Noah’s ark. A manager walked over to the register and kindly escorted him out of the store.

Interpretive dance breaks out in front of the store’s column underneath a do not park sign. The movements ranged with the differently worded, but ultimately the same, thoughts being pumped to the cerebellum. Overworked and underpaid minors understand the difference of needing a job or scraping by on the last dollar– they’ve lived life and every aspect, whether good or bad.

Of course, nothing would be complete without a happy ending; the only happy endings lie within the lies your parents hide you from the truth with. Although, if you believed a word I say, you obviously would enjoy some interpretive dance I mastered the other day.