the weird chick

A Terrible Idea

October 12th, 2010

“You know, I just had a terrible idea.”

“Oh yeah? What is it?”

“No… Never mind.” She stared off. “Are you happy?” she asked, still staring off the bridge. “You know, with life, your marriage.”


She smiled sardonically, staring off the bridge. “Me neither.” She looked at him for a second, then turned back to the bridge. “Sometimes, you know, I think: ‘This is it. This is what my life will be,’ and I hold on to it. I embrace it. Maybe out of fear – I don’t know. And then I think some more, and I just keep repeating to myself: ‘This is it. This is it. This is all it will ever be,’ and then I find myself back here, staring off this bridge. You know, I never liked water. Never was one of those girls who found the beach so incredibly romantic, and I never understood why anyone would dream of a first kiss in the rain. I never understood it. Still don’t.” She went quiet. “My husband thinks I’m just going through a phase. He tells me that I’ll get out of this and I’ll go back to normal. But the thing is, I never was normal. I never even wanted to marry him. But, you know, it’s what I was supposed to do. Everyone gets married, don’t they?” Now he turned to look off the bridge.


She Watches from the Bench

March 3rd, 2010

A vision of beauty wrapped in cellophane, she sits by the river, alone. The slight breeze blows her hair gently as he watches. He sits by the road on an old, dirty bus bench, waiting. She stands as a man approaches her; he watches from the bench. She smiles as the man talks to her; he watches from the bench. The sun hangs low in the sky, surrounded by the pink and orange glow of sunset, as the last bus for the night rolls to a stop by the bench. The door opens to an uninterested man sitting on the bus stop bench.

“You getting on, then?” the driver asks. The man sits and stares, paying no attention to the driver or the bus. “You know this is the last bus,” he adds. The man sits and stares. Annoyance on his face, the driver closes the door and the bus quickly disappears down the road.

She sits again, with her back to the road and her face to the river, and the other man sits with her; he watches from the bench. He sees her reach for the other man’s hand, and he sees her lean on the other man’s shoulder. He sees them stand, and he sees them walk away, her hand in the other man’s.



February 7th, 2010

He sits in the bar, looking down as he sips his drink. The lights are dim, as they usually are, and clouds of illicit smoke hover at eye level. To his left sits a fat, balding man, taking the occasional swig from a pint of beer. To his right, an underweight woman with dirty hair and smudged makeup tries to sip her daiquiri in a classy fashion, all the while looking like a fired stripper. The man moves his glass, swirling around the drink inside.

The woman is lonely. Her feet swing lightly off the barstool, the stiletto heels tapping the legs. She drinks some more. Her shoes are red, the heels and small platform made of cork. He turns his eyes back to his drink briefly as he finishes it, asking the bartender for a refill. He turns his attention back to the woman. Her hair is tied back – an attempt to hide the mats and knots – and her clothes are ill-fitting and slightly torn. Her shoes have an open toe, and surprisingly, her nails are well-kept and polished. He stares discreetly for a bit, before apprehensively turning his attention to her face.



January 19th, 2010

I hate needles. I really do. I was at the doctor’s once – I wasn’t feeling too well – and he did the regular stuff, like pushing on my stomach and asking if it hurt, or weighing me, or something routine like that. I’m fine with all that, doesn’t bother me at all. But then he reached over for that paper, the one he fills out every time I need to get blood work done. I panicked. Not too obviously – as in, I didn’t make any noise – but still something you could notice. The last time I went to see him, about a year or so ago, the same thing happened. Well, I don’t think it was quite as bad, but the same sort of thing happened. I probably mentioned hating needles. This time, I almost started to cry, and I wasn’t even getting the needle yet. I had all the signs of anxiety – I was shaky, breathing heavily, set to cry, talking fast and awkwardly – and the doctor had barely just told me that I had to get some blood work done.

Nobody hates needles as much as I do. At least, nobody I know. I turn into a little kid whenever I have to get a needle. I cry, I hyperventilate, I shake, and I need my mommy. One time, when she wasn’t there, I just refused to get the needle. My dad was there and a nurse was there, that was it. She put the disinfectant on my arm – the inside of my elbow – and was preparing to tie me off, when I panicked and pulled my arms up in front of me, elbows bent to keep my veins safe and puncture-free. Naturally, the nurse and my dad weren’t too pleased. The nurse didn’t do much, I guess she was a little shocked by my behaviour. I was sixteen at the time, I think, and people tend to judge based on age. Being sixteen, I guess she assumed I wouldn’t cry and panic and act like a scared little girl.


All Inclusive

November 3rd, 2009

There’s another hole in my fishnets. I really thought I was being careful this time – guess it got a little rough. There’s red lipstick smudged across my cheeks, a discarded bra hanging from the door handle (where it landed coincidentally), and stains recklessly scattered around the room – on the floor, the walls, the bed, everywhere but the ceiling really. The sheets are a little torn, but I doubt anyone will notice. They won’t have enough time – or at least, they’ll be too busy. The sheets are easier to disguise than the growing hole in my fishnets. It’s not like they’re my sheets, anyway.

I have to give the room back in a couple hours. The bathroom door is open, and I can see some water pooling just outside the shower. There is a used tampon in the garbage can I tossed from the night before. My underwear is draped over the faucet in the tub – I don’t remember putting them there. Not that it matters. I put them on and drop a towel over the water before shutting the light and returning to the room.


Ain’t Nothin

June 14th, 2009

“What is it?”

“Ain’t nothin’.”

“So then what is it?”

“Ain’t nothin’.”

Confusion. “What is it?”

“I tell ya, it ain’t nothin’.”

Frustration. “I know it isn’t. What is it?”

“Ain’t nothin’.”

If she hadn’t been so morbidly curious, she may have quit right then. “I know it’s something, but what? Can I see it?” She tried to look around.



May 16th, 2009

I slowly pull the shirt on – buttons undone. The name on the right chest pocket is cheaply stitched; bits of loose thread hang messily, threatening to drop the patch soon. To the casual passerby, my name is Darrell. Personally, I don’t feel I have a name – it changes so often that there’s no real point becoming attached to any particular one. A glance in the mirror brings to my attention the stains adorning my new shirt. They are so difficult to remove – the one problem I tend to hace with my attire. Not much of a cause for concern, as I will be finding a new shirt shortly.

The local dry cleaner is a five minute walk from my home. The short commute is worthwhile to make the shirt wearable, despite its expected short life. I walk in the door and am greeted by a smiling girl behind a counter.

“Hello, can I help you?” she says with rehearsed precision. I point to the stains on my shirt.

“Yes. I was painting the house recently.As you can see, I’m not the most careful. The wife keeps telling me I shouldn’t wear my work clothes when I do anything with paint. Suppose I should listen.” I pause to smile, and to see hers. “I doubt I need to say it, but she’s refused to fix this mess for me. She’s done so too many times, I guess. Would you be able to clean this up?”

The girl smiles again – that phony business smile – and says to me “Of course we can.” Despite the unconventional nature, I remove the shirt right there and hand it to her.

“Thank you,” I begin to say, looking down at the name on he uniform, “Lucy.” I leave.


I slowly pull the shirt on – buttons undone. The name on the right chest pocket is nicely embroidered in a bright red thread, contrasting noticeably with the dull off-white shade of the fabric. To the casual passerby, my name is Lucy.


February 5th, 2009

Creativity. Just a little creativity! Is that so much to ask? Perhaps in the beginning, the soft-spoken “why are you doing this?” was satisfying. Actually, it was completely fulfilling, to laugh and know they’d never understand why I do the things I do. Eventually, though, I shouldn’t be wrong in expecting a little… variation in their pleas. Laugh at me, just once. Or maybe, ask me a question you have a chance of getting answered. Why do I never hear something a little more in-depth? Why does no one think to ask “how did you come up with your technique”? I’m willing to answer that. And – maybe – in my moment of brief reflection, you could come up with a decent escape. At first, running the moment I looked away was humouring. Of course, only so in its blatant stupidity and desperation. I still harbour deep affection for that moment of wild desperation displayed near the end, but I wish they would present it with a little more creativity.

Sometimes, I dress up as a therapist and get a little personal with my visitors. I love how that looks on paper. Once they’re strapped to the couch, I interrogate them, deeply. No one seems to be fond of the things I reveal or discover, and they seem to particularly resent the things I bring up. People have so much to hide. Maybe if they’d do some of the thinking, I wouldn’t have to impose such harsh treatments. It’s almost as if they go out of their way to bore me, and I don’t like to stay bored for long. Why is it my fault if they don’t like my solution? And I do give them a choice. Fortunately, no one is ever interested in the alternative. Entertainment is important to maintain.