@tinierpissierfairy
Switchy tiny fairy, usually the size of your thumb, sometimes much bigger. Brain damage, music, antifascism, thirst, domestic smut. Genderqueer after a very long time being cishet male (so he/they). I will post politics, and so should you. sizewrites.com
It's the final 6hrs before I take that fist Snapshot for the next section!!
HUGE Thank you, for the likes and reposts, and to all the new followers for checking Spekk out.
#Macromarch #Sizesky #Growthdrive
Whoops
Oh, it’s Carol the frog
The Many Moods of Brelly
Hell. Yes.
This is how you learned many tiny men are really really tiresome.
Right??
The second guy has obviously been called a very special boy all his life and he has never been hit in the face. The other was a Marine who lives in a double wide who genuinely wants everyone to be happy and respected. I will take a bullet in him. I want to leave bullets in the other.
I work with two people who, if they open their mouths unleash a torrent of the most unremarkable verbiage you can imagine. One is a good man and I'll (act like I'll) listen to him all day. The other is a yelping yodeling dipshit and if he tries to engage with me I grunt.
oh lord how embarrassing
I have no idea if you have or haven't but I'd be honored
"That person is eating. I have nothing to say. Obviously, these two paradigms must interact."
In the next episode, I recount my all-consuming guilt over forcing A Famous Person to wear a yarmulke in the course of what I now realize to be a drunken assault and battery on my part.
I couldn't even step outside to nic up later because I was scared he was going to be out there. So I huddled in the bathroom, in a stall, with a photocopied sign over the toilet that said I'M NOT DIRTY I'M JUST OLD.
In any case, it all went downhill from there and I can't remember anything else because he kept talking and asking me questions and eating a cold hamburger from his home, which I now know to be in Hell.
Which is one of life's great joys: gas station fried chicken under the sky, the sky, the quiet sky that isn't talking to me.
You don't want to know what I think about the Middle East. I don't want to know what YOU think about the Middle East. There are about seven people on this planet who I want to know what they think about the Middle East, and also I'm eating fried chicken here, al fresco.
That is a direct quote.
I tell him my name and attempt to cave in his forehead with my eyes. There is a pause.
"What do you think about the Middle East? Crazy, huh?"
Sure, I say, not looking at him. He tells me his name. Fucker, are you going to eat? I don't want to know your name. I want to eat fried chicken and look at my friends waxing pornographic on the internet.
That was my first and last warning. I was a fool.
Last week I was sitting at a table outside the huge warren of arts spaces I practice in, blocks from anywhere residential, eating fried chicken and looking at my laptop. I was content. Some zoomer comes up and asks me if he can sit down and eat with me.
This is what it feels like to have people walk up and try to talk to me in public.
GODDAMN RIGHT YOU DID
THEY GONNA RUE THE DAY THEY FUCKED WITH BEHRT
You've distilled a LOT into a very small space here.
A tiny hearing muffled conversations coming from outside their position in their owner's clothes
Filled with a strange combination of wistfulness at the world no longer available to them, relief at no longer having to participate in it, and gratefulness to their owner for the privacy of this spot.
Any and all!
If these stories are placed for public consumption, where would one find such stories?
Tear em up, Ed. Unemployment agencies are hell, designed to make you feel like hell, and just walking out without curling into a fetal ball is a triumph.
