Upset at the Mavericks win last night, I stifled my burning hate for Jason Kidd as the DART Rail slid across the tracks. Fortunately, the site of a medically defined obese 20-something became the recipient of my anger and frustration.
Pale, fat, and apparently, with no sense of shame, this woman sat unaware of the torture she was putting me through. The bile from the morning’s breakfast of greasy swine rising up my throat and my conscious efforts to force it back down created a water boarding effect. From her 10 year old knobby and worn mahogany Doc Martens in need of a staining to her iron oxide-like hair, I say like, because Rust isn’t malleable enough to knot and tangle like this, I was grateful to hate her and her ilk.
Then it dawned on me, as she stood up to get off the train, an epiphany into the sociological reasons of substance abuse!
Her tawdry, wrinkled clothing stuck in her bodily crevices, the cellulite dimples of her ass showing through her Kohl’s pants and her bra cutting into the skin of her ‘back-tit’, as is the parlance of the day. The skin growths on her neck, back and face a quite literal Mole that looked like a Mountain Hill (see what I did there?). All this, along with her carrying of a cheap plastic purse ripped with hanging cotton strings led to my great discovery.
Simply put, this woman will never know the cheap thrill of a designer hand bag. The superficial feeling of power over her peers who lack specific shapes on their handbags, the delusional thoughts of beauty, as she gazes in the mirror, her patterned purse hiding numerous physical flaws, and the false sense of dignity that stiffens her neck allowing her to walk with poise through a crowded public area silently screaming, “I’m Somebody, Goddammit!”
No, this woman’s only hope for self worth and value lies in the first five fleeting and intoxicating minutes after hitting the Crack pipe. Her strength to carry on in a world where she is a worthless pathetic fuck is made in a dirty basin tub with chemicals and is bestowed with a flicker of the Bic and inhalation of dirty smoke. In the end, perhaps this offensive and gruesome woman is not so different than those I lust after and actively pursue. They are all searching for something. Some go to Neiman Marcus, others, Norman, Oklahoma.
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