Monday, July 26, 2010

This...is a Story. Finish it.

That motherfucker is staring at me.

There he was. An ogre. Sitting across the room, alone in a booth. What sort of creepy fuck eats at restaurant alone...in a goddamn booth? And he's staring at me; he has been staring at me for the last five minutes. Every time I look up...those eyes. Those fucking disgusting furrowing bushy whacked out eyebrows. That fucking mustache looks like someone shit and smeared it in splotchy patches above his lip. He's so fucking fat, too. God. I know I'm attractive or whatever, but does he have to be so goddamn obvious?

A friend joins him. Equally as creepy-looking. Thin, frail, glasses, a goatee. Fatass nudges Skins and they both look at me. They're smiling. Oh, god, I cannot even look at them. I can't make eye contact. They're fucking raping me in their minds right now. Thinking the most horridly vulgar, nasty things about me. I know I'm hot, but can't they control themselves? I give them the finger. They raise their eyebrows but continue looking. God, the nerve...

More people are staring, Kass.

Nearly every man in the room is staring. I'm not used to so much attention, yet. They should give me a break. Ease me into this whole, "every-man-who-looks-at-you-wants-to-ravage-you" thing. It makes me so uncomfortable, damn. My skin is crawling; I feel so fucking invaded. Why are men such creepy fucks? Why are they such assholes--such dogs?

Something flashes behind me. What the FUCK? Is someone taking a goddamn picture of me? I turn to tell off the motherfucker who thinks he can get off taking a picture of me without my consent.

A football player is sitting at a table in the court. A famous football player...I've seen him before...he's signing photographs, footballs, and jerseys at a table in the court. Dads are bringing their kids; everyone is crowded around. Guys in the mall from every direction are staring. Guys in this restaurant are staring out the window directly behind me...at a football player.

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