Under The Wagon

"You don't remember me?"

"Uh..."

"You seriously don't remember me? I can't believe this!"

"Hey, I mean, you know....(indistinct muttering)...Sorry dude."

"WE TOOK A SHOWER TOGETHER."

"Really? Well that's cool, I guess. If you say so."


The worst part...It was it was this guy:

http://underthewagon.blogspot.com/2004/11/thank-god-he-subscribes-to-maxim.html

For the record, his name is indeed Steve.

Christ, I think I'm retarded.

I've seen bus station bathrooms that were cleaner than my apartment.

The current condition of my 8x10 foot apartment ("The Hobbit Hole") is thus:

*Every dish I own is in the sink. Every dish I own has been in the sink since EARLY NOVEMBER. I've resorted to eating everything directly out of the can or box with plastic utensils. I don't own a microwave either. Grocery shopping is accompanied with an inner monologue running "Hmm, nothing clean to cook this in...Maybe I'll just grab some chips and a jar of pickles...Ohhh, croutons!"

*My bed is on cinderblocks. Which is actually an improvement. I'd been sleeping on the floor since October, when I decided that bringing home a 6'8 fellow was a good idea. It wasn't. (bonus fun mental image: I'm 4'10)

*3 overflowing garbage bags in kitchen. One overflowing trash can in bathroom.

*Books, clothes and dirty sheets take up every available inch of floor space. I have developed mountain goat-esque skills to maneuver the apartment, (somewhat) gracefully bounding from towering precipices of clutter.

*Regarding the dirty sheets on the floor...They were so bad I honestly had to strip them off the bed. Rather than wash them, I just piled them in the middle of the room to form a little "Stinky sheet Mountain." So not only am I sleeping on a bed supported by cinderblocks...It's on a bare mattress, with nothing but an old blanket and a single pillow.

I've been blaming my total lack of interest in the state of my apartment on Seasonal Affective Disorder. I lack motivation to clean because I'm just a little depressed. No biggie. I'll probably do it at some point.

I'm sure the fact that I'm currently drinking a beer at 8 in the morning has nothing to do with it.

Honest.

I recently found a little statistics program to track visititors to this site. It's become quite the obsession, seeing who's checking me out. It's cool. http://www.statcounter.com/

Anyway, I apparently am now getting more hits from England than Canada. Canadians, you better step up before you lose your "Most Favored Nation" status. Eh?

And to any Brits who are reading this...Please email me. I'd like to visit sometime in the next year, and I need a place to crash. kmtflea@yahoo.com

If you're reading this, it's obvious that I'm fun to hang out with. I promise not to throw up all over you, piss your couch, or destroy all your most valuble possesions and relationships.

Much.

Okay Canadians ('cause you're the ones that read this...I love you so),

First off, the new laptop and its pretty little wireless LAN normally requires me to run down to the Starbucks (open 24 hours) or to Corcorran's (not open 24 hours, but it's a bar. 'Nuff said) to pick up internet access. However, someone new must have moved into the neighborhood.

For the past three days I've been piggybacking on somebody's amazingly fast wireless connection. I haven't been getting kicked off at all, either. This is one of the few things that rocks harder than I do. Free internet access while sitting in your own bed (frequently drunk and occasionally naked)? Oh hells yeah, I love me some Hijacked Wifi.

Anyway, I've been doing the IM thing a lot. If you have it, I'm "KMTflea" on AOL IM, on at incredibly odd hours, and usually bored.

I'm sure I'll regret putting that out here. Oh well. If you annoy me I'll ignore you.

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In other news, I have a few new fiction pieces up.

http://wnepeeps.blogspot.com/2005/01/soup-at-hand-my-at-ass.html

http://wnepeeps.blogspot.com/2005/01/geometry-pt-1-third-person-squared.html

http://wnepeeps.blogspot.com/2005/01/geometry-pt-2-run-on-bermuda-triangle.html

http://wnepeeps.blogspot.com/2004/12/inexplicable-items-found-in-office.html

http://wnepeeps.blogspot.com/2004/12/things-ive-said-im-gonna-blog-about.html

Enjoy. Or don't. I really don't give a shit. And the last two are fairly mundane (i.e. "fucking stupid), but hey, I'm all about full disclosure.

I recently realized that Under the Wagon is dangerously close to becoming a typical blog. Nothing but my waxing long and barely eloquent about nothing of import. My life of drinking and whoring has become rather commonplace of late…There’s still plenty of both, but the actual encounters are fairly repetitive. Which should probably make me sad (or at least a candidate for rehab), but instead, let’s take a look back at one of the more amusing periods of my life: The months following my divorce, or “Summer of Love, 2000.”

Okay, so the guy had a pinkie dick.

Seriously, he was one of the least endowed fellows I’ve ever been with, but he was 21 with the prettiest body I’d ever seen. You coulda bounced a quarter off his ass. And he would go down for hours and it was “Summer of Love, 2000” after all. So I had him in the rotation.

I always wanted to be the kind of girl that did anal. That probably makes me an even bigger whore than I already am, but so be it. I was the girl who was up for anything, the kind you remember fondly when sitting on the porch of the retirement home…No source of pleasure was out of bounds, a sensualist of the highest order. I wanted to be an anal girl.

I knew women that said they liked it. Women who weren’t being paid to, even.

So when Pinkie Dick suggested it, I was game. If I was gonna try butt sex with anybody, this would be the guy to start with.

Lubricant was applied.

My virgin ass was approached.

Penetration.

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He cracked three ribs.

His, not mine.

As soon as his incredibly tiny dick entered me searing pain shot through the delicate flower that was my ass. I’m 4’10...This guy was a good 6 feet tall, ‘bout a buck and half…And I threw him off me like a championship bronco. He went flying off the bed, smashing into the dresser across the room.

He cracked three ribs.

The only thing I could think is that if I’d had longer hair at the time, maybe he could have held on. As it was…

He cracked three ribs.

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His removal from the rotation was a mutual decision.

I read a lot of sci-fi. And for some reason I’ve never figured out, sci-fi is very homo-friendly. More specifically, bi-friendly. Ursula K. LeGuin, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Arthur C. Clarke, countless others…They love creating mystical, magical worlds where everybody gets it on with everybody.

I think it was in “The Songs of Distant Earth" where Clarke describes sexuality as a matter of percentages. In the book, it’s been established (in the future, of course) that the only people 100 percent hetero or homosexual are “certified psychotics.” That might be taking it a tad far, but I like the idea of percentages.

Sorority girls and still-in-the-closet gay guys have pretty much ruined bi-sexuality. The guys claim bi-sexuality to put off admitting they’re actually gay…The girls are only bi if there are guys around who might be turned on by watching them kiss another girl and subsequently buy them drinks all night (presumably with plans for a threesome that will never materialize).

That being said, I’m bi.

Going with percentages, I look at myself as 70-30. I find certain women very attractive, I like lesbian porn better than straight porn (girl-on-girl is usually hotter than watching some guy plug a chick in the ass before he blows a load on her face). Girls are usually very good kissers. Breasts are fun to play with.

But once again, that being said…I’m a little afraid of vaginas other than my own.

I have no desire to eat a girl out (I just want to kind of dry-hump them) and I really like cock.

One of the first girls I ever made out with was a co-worker…It was a drunken office party and I was engaged at the time. Ironically enough, the girl used to work with my Ex, and he had a huge crush on her. I got further with her than he ever did. Which was amusing after we divorced, but at the time I felt bad. For him.

But my first, legit, full-on lesbionic experience…No way of describing that except as…Um, weird. Good, but weird.

The girl was actually a good friend of mine. Still is, in fact. It goes without saying that alcohol was involved, and we were totally making out at the bar, but not for anyone’s attention. Somehow I just decided that kissing her was a good idea.

We ended up at her place, at which point things got a little fuzzy. Clarification: My memory got a little fuzzy.

All of a sudden, I’m naked with another girl. And for the life of me, I was so drunk that I thought I was with a guy. Sort of. For some reason I thought I was with a transvestite. I was persistently surprised by the presence of her (rather huge) breasts. I couldn’t figure out why I was naked with someone who had such a high voice. And I kept reaching between her legs, looking for a dick. I have to say, I was frustrated by the absence of cock.

But my relentless foraging between her thighs apparently spoke well for me. “I really liked how aggressive you were,” she told me later.

Yeah, I totally knew what I was doing. Right.

So it was a little odd. Fun, but odd.

I still like girls. But I really like cock

(Note: If you have ever wanted to sleep with me don’t read any further. If I want to sleep with you, PLEASE don’t read any further. Seriously. If I’ve already slept with you, knock yourself out…I’m done with you. But it‘s pretty disgusting regardless.)

I’ve spent a lot time at strip clubs. When all your friends are guys, there’s a good chance that much of your time will be spent looking at breasts other than your own. Every Wednesday my buddies (mostly co-workers) would start the night at Hooters with cheap pitchers and copious amounts of wings, and end the night at the titty bar.

It’s sad when a guy walks into a strip club and all the strippers know him. When a girl walks into a strip club and all the hoochies yell “Hey Karla!” and the girl hanging off the pole on-stage waves and asks “Wanna lap dance later?”…Well, it’s either very bad thing or a very good thing. I’m not sure.

One night after the boys and I had spent a good deal of time and money to smell like stripper (I’ve never quite been able to pin down the scent…It’s a mixture of whore sweat, baby powder and sugar cookies…But whatever it is it’s impossible to wash off your face.) I got a ride home with Kyle, one of my more unattractive co-workers. Or apparently I did because I woke up naked with him in my bed, having no recollection of how I got there.

The reason I woke up was because I was cold. And wet.

I was lying in a puddle of piss. My own.

I had gotten so drunk I wet the bed. I was lying in a pool of piss, next to my overweight and unattractive co-worker. Naked. Christ.

But as Kyle awoke, I covered for myself.

“Wow, it must have been hot in here last night…I sweated so much, did you sweat a lot? Seriously, I should have turned on the air conditioning ’cause I sweat A LOT.”

Then, to further distract, I quickly rolled on top of him (hating myself the whole time), threw the blanket over the wet spot, and had sex with him.

I don’t think he noticed the “sweat” stain.

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An even more disgusting afterward: A few months later I hooked up with Kyle again. Same story - Hooters, strip club - except I was (somewhat) sober. I had just finished my period, and was looking for a quick lay. During the sex, I was somewhat surprised…”Wow, I didn’t remember Kyle being this big.”

He wasn’t. As I discovered when I went to the bathroom afterwards and realized I still had a tampon stuck inside me.

Yeah. My period hadn’t ended, I had just forgotten a tampon. For nearly a WEEK. I’m still surprised I didn’t get Toxic Shock.

The mess was indescribable.

Well, it wasn’t, really, but if I did describe it, you’d wish I hadn’t. Especially if you still had any thoughts of sleeping with me.

In which case, you’re an even sicker fuck than I am.

I’m not doing my part.

It’s the day after Christmas, and I’m sitting at Midway Airport in Chicago. I bought into the media hype and was at the airport the duly appointed 2 hours before my flight (I was grateful for this at first…The check-in area was total chaos, but once I finally found the express-advance-ticket-purchase-why no, I’m not checking any luggage-line, it went fairly quickly). Left with a full hour before my flight, I’m denied my usual time-killer: $8 beer in the nearest depressingly quaint airport bar. It’s Sunday, and Chicago’s antiquated liquor laws prohibit the sale of life giving nectars until 11am, at which point I should be happily airborne (Unfortunately the flight to Kansas City is so short that I won’t be able to purchase a cocktail during the flight either, leaving me horribly unprepared for 3 days with my family).

So instead I plug the new laptop into the nearest outlet (Santa was oh, so very good this year), and start up a few games of solitaire. It’s fairly mind numbing, though it lacks the inflated sense of self-worth that I’d get with a nice stiff gin.

Then I realize that I’m sitting a mere two feet from an “unattended package.” Which the chilly overhead announcement lady has already warned me several times about. She is also reminding me that the moving sidewalk is ending every goddamn second, but I will ignore that for the moment. If I can.

An Unattended Package. The grim harbinger of a fragile and threatened America, the ultimate call for constant vigilance, the eerie warning that some godless people actually hate the good ol’ US of A! An Unattended Package!

The packages are thus: One plastic Wal-Mart shopping bag (a grim harbinger of an entirely different horror) filled with remnants of foil and the plastic wrappers from candy bars and possibly cheese sticks. While this may indeed be Al-Queda’s latest achievement in blow-you-to-hell technology, I’m gonna assume it’s the leftovers from somebody’s lunch. A rude somebody…the trash can is right over there…but not a dangerous somebody.

The other item was a small, black nylon bag. Very lumpy. Very suspicious. It was emblazoned with the logo of the infamous “Ad-iddas.”

And it smelled like ass.

I’m guessing somebody got tired of carrying around their gym socks, but I’m hardly an expert.

The issue at hand is…We’re supposed to alert in the presence of suspicious packages in order to protect the nation. And possibly ourselves. But my first thought at seeing a strange black bag is “Oh Christ, if I tell somebody about this, they’re all gonna know it’s just a bag of garbage and stank sweat socks. But they’ll have to follow regulations and get the police to remove it and it’ll take forever and that crap is right next to MY boarding gate so they’ll delay MY flight and then I’ll never get to Kansas City (though if it takes long enough I might get a drink).”

So I didn’t tell anybody.

It should be noted that when I was a wee sma’ child, a building in my town was actually bombed with a “mysterious package.” I’m serious. A bombing in my tiny little hometown (and current destination) in the southeast corner of Kansas. Yes, 20 years ago in Chanute fucking Kansas, an employee’s crazed ex-girlfriend walked into a shoe store, left a paper bag in the corner, and blew the high holy out of the entire 3 story building. Huge fire, absolutely nothing left of the store. Side note: Her boyfriend wasn’t in the store at the time, and no one was killed, but Chanute (pop. 7500) still talks about it. Hell, I still talk about it when I come to town. There’s really not much else that’s happened there in oh, a century.

The government and the media have so over stimulated us with the whole war on terror, that it’s understandable for most of this country’s population to be fairly blasé about this stuff nowadays. I’m pretty sure it’s safe to go to the mall on Halloween. I assume that the white powder on the floor is harmless (Depending on where I’m at. Then I assume it’s expensive). But I know that people really can conceal a bomb in paper bag, and that it really can fuck shit up.

So why didn’t I tell anybody?

I’d like to think it’s because the last people I saw near that area wouldn’t threaten anything except maybe Nichelle Nichols at a Star Trek convention, or the buffet at Sizzler. I’d like to think I didn’t feel it was necessary because it smelled like ass, and really…Who’s ever heard of a bomb that smells that god awful ? You may think you’re gonna die around something that reeking, but it can’t actually hurt you.

But what worries me is thinking that really, all I worried about was making my flight. “Somebody else will take care of it, I don’t want to draw attention to it, I don’t want my flight cancelled or even delayed by 5 damn minutes.” “I don’t want to be involved.” “I don’t want to be inconvenienced.”

“It’s not my problem.”

It doesn’t get more American than that.





(Okay, this post should have actually been posted 2 weeks ago, since it actually was written at the airport on the 26th, but then I forgot about it until just now...so just pretend it's post dated, or some shit.)