by Jane Etarie
Sean White's is great. Like casual fine dining. There's like a strict hiring policy where they only hire the hot little bitches. And maybe one fat chick that they hide in the sink, so they can't be accused of hiring discrimination or whatever. It's a place where the young people hang out, like where they try to drink if they can't get into the bars. And where older people go— like when they're in denial— and try to act and dress like they're still young. And then there's the old pervs in suits— like the ones who work at the banks and shit. They come in for lunch. And they laugh and talk loud and flash their watches. They stare at the hot ass and make their pervy jokes and then they laugh some more. Nobody likes them.
We got a booth pretty fast. Our waitress looked like Ellen Page and had a feather clipped in her hair. Like one of those hipster chicks. She was pretty, but she'd be prettier with a boob job. Some extensions and little makeup wouldn't kill her either. Then she'd get the tips. Juno handed us our menus and asks if we'd like to start with drinks. I felt like Kameljit was the kind of girl that I could drink in front of without worrying about her telling anyone. So I ordered a Patron Margarita, only they were out of Patron, so I got the Cuervo Margarita instead. But really I bet it was just some shit from a tap. But whatever, I didn't care, it was on Kameljit. She ordered an iced tea.
So Kameljit starts asking me shit like, when am I due? Am I excited? Do I know if it's a boy or girl? And I just give her like quick answers, because really I'm more excited about the menu and recommending shit to her. I hadn't been here in a while. And I'm like trying to figure out if I want to start with Spicy Orange Thai Salad or the Blackened Cajun Chicken Salad. I ask if she wants to split the Tuna Tataki and the Calamari with chipotle aioli with me, but she says she's not hungry.
So when Juno comes back I order the Blackened Cajun Chicken Salad, and the Tuna on Soft Corn Taco for starters. Kameljit's at least got to try a bite. And I tell Juno that I'm just dying for the Perogie Burger with bacon, cheddar, and carmelized onion sauce— and if could I get the yam fries with chipotle aioli on the side, that'd be great. I decide a pint of Pilsner will go perfect with it. Kameljit gets another iced tea.
After we order, Kameljit asks me more questions. Like about work. Do I enjoy it? Do I want to keep working year after year? Am I financially secure? Have I prepared for my baby's future? I swear to god she's like reading from a scrap of paper, like a script. And I see where this is going. She'd like to partner with me. Add me to her list of associates. If I have some savings— some money that is not being put to proper use perhaps?— she could make me twenty percent, and yes— even fifty percent— in a year. Together we could all make a lot of money. She is affiliated with Sun Money Systems International.
And I just shake my head. The poor girl doesn't stand a chance. She's got a lot to learn. Like a lot to learn. So I tell her that I'm not interested, but thanks anyways. And then I'm all like, Sweetie, let me tell you about making money— you're going about it all the wrong way. And I explain to her The Secret, and what she needs to do to manifest her goals and desires into her life. I share the techniques that all the happiest and most successful people in the world use to make their dreams come true. And she's listening but I don't think she's like understanding, so I tell her I'd burn her some cd's.
And then she's all like, You mean you pray for it? That's The Secret? And I just like laugh and roll my eyes like she's fucking crazy, and I'm like, No! You're not praying for it... you're asking the universe and letting it go... you're visualizing what you want so that you'll attract its energy and it will manifest itself into your life. Praying is like for... desperate people. People with missing dead children, people with cancer. Shit like that. Or sports fans. It just doesn't work. Praying is garbage, I tell her.
So I gave up and quit talking and tried to finish my food before it got cold. Only I'm really not as hungry as I think, and I'm like only able to eat maybe half my Perogy Burger. It was so good, but just like way too much. And I mean, the appetizers were pretty small, but I probably should have just gotten one.
Then Juno comes by and I ask her for the check, please. And if she can wrap it all up for me, that would be great. Then I'm all like, Thanks, Juno. And she looks at me all weird and leaves. She brings everything back and I look at the bill quick before I shoot it to Kameljit. I was glad she was paying for all of this. And I hoped that she made all sorts of money with her pyramid scam to cover it all, but I doubted it.
I was like so full and buzzed that I really didn't feel like going back to work. So I called them before we left and I tell them that I'm feeling sick and pregnant, that I don't think I can make it back. Kameljit dropped me off at my Escalade and I drove home. I had the place to myself, so I uncorked a bottle, hit the couch, and checked out some shit on Assbook. Andre's status was I am love, and he was going on about how he didn't think such a beautiful girl could like me back. What a sad lovesick fool. Some girl was arguing with him about his status.
I passed out on the couch with my open bottle and open laptop. For real, that perogy burger just knocked me out.
Number One Killer
Frona isn't on Assbook. She has this blog that she keeps her travel photos on. Frona'sBlog, I think.
She sent the office a couple of postcards, but mostly she updates her blog once or twice a week and says hi to everyone on there. Anyways, she hadn't updated in about two or three weeks and we found out through this woman at work, Nancy, that she died.
It was sort of sad, I guess. We were all looking at her blog at work, like at all the pictures. Seeing how happy and excited she was. Like how much she was enjoying life. There she was with a bunch of old broads on Kilimanjaro or some shit. There was Frona pointing at a giraffe. There she was on one knee, handing a ball to some smiling African kid.
So we all left like these RIP's and goodbyes and sad face emoticons on her comments page.
And it turns out that the number one killer in Africa is not the lion or tiger, it's not the cobra or crocodile— it's the hippopatamus. The hippopatamus maims or kills more people in Africa every year than any other animal. I mean, they look slow and stupid, and they look friendly enough— like you could like walk up to one and feed it a cabbage— but it turns out those things can move. Like faster than people. They'd rip your arm off with that cabbage, they'd rip you in two. Easy. They don't give a shit for people. I mean, they're herbivores— they don't need to kill people— they gore or trample people for fun.
So poor Frona was like on some kind of river safari or whatever, and they were watching these monsters from the boat. And I guess she was like leaning over too far, trying to take a picture of the hippos, like maybe to add to her blog, and her handbag falls in the river.
Anyways, you just try finding insulin in some asscrack sweaty jungle in Africa. It doesn't happen. They can't even afford to give kids a one dollar malaria shot. So I guess she went into a coma that day and died before they could get her to the medical tent or elementary school gym in time.
This is What's Wrong
I got home from work. Robert was watching some shit about toddler beauty pageants. He was drinking and his eyes were red and it looked like he was crying. Seriously, did he just sit around and drink and cry every afternoon? So I was all like, What’s wrong, Boo? He wouldn’t answer. Or look at me. He was like, Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Don’t worry about it.
He stared at the tv. Some blond brat with big hair strutted and smiled on a runway, and then shrieked all redfaced at her trailer park mom backstage. She was having a fit. I wanted to knock out her little chiclets. Shake her by the shoulders, give a couple good slaps to that little whore mouth.
I guess he thought I'd leave him alone to pout, but I kept pressing. Because we’re a team. And that’s what people in love do for each other, and I wouldn’t leave him alone or let it go until I could help him.
So he was like, Fine. You wanna know what’s wrong? This... this is what’s fucking wrong... And he pulls some papers from the coffee table a
nd throws them at my face. And then he grabs the bologna sandwich from the ashtray and throws that at my face too, but he misses and mustard blows up all over my tits. So I was all like, Fuck off! What the hell’s the matter with you? I’m only trying to help, you fucking asshole! And he was like, You want to help? Fine! Read it! Read it, bitch! You said you want to know what’s wrong? This... this is what’s fucking wrong!... Here! Go ahead, read it... make it all better...
I was like furious. We kind of went on like that for maybe five, ten minutes, and then we calmed down and apologized and everything was better. I looked at the papers to see what he was so upset about.
In Thrall of the Lich King—
Book One of the
Three Thrones Trilogy.
By Brooks Cassiar and Jordan Korso
Part One— Corsairs on the Fringe of Time
...And Savage Rex
Son of War
Faught on through
th' blood and gore
And would not stop
'til lust was fed
To swing his sword
and slay them dead...
—verse viii, chapter xiv Caliope of Wyrd
by Pharnasuss Quailsong, Poet Laureate of the Royal Court of King Toran III, of the Fourth Age
First Prologue
The lone elf ran across the blue vastness of the barren moonscape. What had first been a sliver on the horizon now loomed before him an ebon monolith. Just beyond it, he could see the constellation of the Dragon— the tail still within the House of the Heliosphere. This boded well. He still had time for passage through the ephemeral Rook, across space and time, to U'ros below. He was so close.
Only something was not right.
He slowed, and crouched by an outcropping of blue, quartzlike moonstone. His keen, silver eyes scanned the area. The Great Rook— origins lost in the Myst Tyme, one of the Twelve Towers in the Realms of Illeia, and the only one on his home of Elmenaar— was lifeless. Green Mother U'ros rose in the South.
This was a trap.
The tail of the sky Dragon was exiting the House. Once the constellation left the House, the Tower would disappear, would become a mirage lasting three cycles, and no one could enter. Travel through it would be impossible. The Tower began to waver.
The danger mattered not— he had to enter the Rook, or his mission would be lost. The Knight ran purposefully. His crystal armor, like the landscape animated, was but a shimmer to the eye as he stealthfully sped to his destination.
He cautiously entered the circle of megaliths, silently drawing his sword. It was pure crystal, like blue ice. It pointed like a compass towards blood, towards the enemy, vibrating in warning. It now anxiously pulled his grip in the direction of the tower.
At the base of the Rook, he saw the fallen guardians. The Keepers— all three, slain. This was not possible. Three of the greatest warriors, selected from the King's Royal Elite. Trained for decades in the harshest conditions, under the lethal eye of the Monks of the Silver Cresent. Eighteenth level Meridian Lifeflow— all Masters of Death. There were few men who had achieved that level, and now three of them lay dead before him. The Keepers were trained to hold an army within the Tower for days. Who could have done this?
A figure emerged like a shadow from the Rook, his black clothing like ragged night. He was blindfolded with a long, black cloth, the ends flowed easily behind him. He had no weapons, and he walked confidently, flexing his fists at his sides. An aura of danger, like ozone, crackled around him. He stopped suddenly, only yards away from the Elven Knight.
The Knight observed the man. He did not know they were real. He had only heard legends of them. They were given many names, in many stories— all fantastic, all frightening, all imposing, and all— at least it seemed now— too real. The Brotherhood of Blood. The Reavers. Perfect Death. The Mage Smashers. They Who Cannot Not Be Killed.
"Are you the One named Elyhol'eheymn, son of Eiyerrekh?" asked the shadow.
"Aye." answered the Blue Knight.
"Then you are in possession of something I require..."
The last star of the Dragon's tail hanged in the House of the Heliosphere.
I could only read the first page of it. I didn’t understand any of it, like what the hell it was all about. I'm pretty sure I don't like that kind of shit. It's kind of like garbage. Like shitty and gay. But I was all like, Um, I don’t get it... I mean, I don't get why you're upset? This is good. This is like really good. It's, uh... I think it's really good.
And he kind of just leaned his head back on the couch and rolled his eyes. He was looking at the ceiling and just laughed quietly and shook his head, like I was the biggest retard in the world. And then he sucked back the rest of his beer and looked at me, like with disdain, like I was Jacob, the smelly kid in fifth grade. The kid who always wore the same clothes and the dirty red ski jacket that the teacher bought him because he was so poor.
And he was all like, You’re right. It is good... It’s real good. That’s the problem. That's the fucking problem, man, right there... I didn’t write it... Tyler did. Fucking Tyler wrote it. He gave it to me at work... fucking rub it in my face after I showed him the first chapter of my shitty story...
So then I was all like, Well who gives a shit if it’s good? And honestly? I don’t really like it anyways. Like seriously... it's pretty gay. That poem? Robert, trust me, there is so much wrong with that story... It sucks, really. Your stories are way better than that.
And then he's all like, You just don’t understand this shit... it is good... it’s really good. I had almost the exact same idea back in high school but he just wrote it better than me. It’s like he was reading my mind... the moon... the blue elf... the tower. Fuck, I don’t even know why I should even bother. I mean, I'll never...
I wanted to tell him to quit being such a fucking crybaby. To grow up. But I know he's artistic. Sensitive. And I wanted to support him even though I thought all this shit was retarded. So I took a page from Oprah. You know, take the high road. And I was all like, Well, I'm sorry, but um... you don’t have to be condescending... you know? I was only trying to help.
And his voice started cracking like he was about to cry again, and I can tell he's sorry. And he's like, Aw fuck, whatever... I’m sorry, man. Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal. I'm just upset. It feels like nothing's working out. I feel like I'm... I dunno.
And then he got up and grabbed the rest of the beer and his jacket. And I think he was more like talking to himself than he was to me, and he was all like, Fuck it. I don't care. It’s all fucking gay and a waste of time anyway... Fuck it. Fuck it, man. I’m going out.
Prana Red Tara- Che Revolution
Oh my god. I just kept saying to him, Robert, you are so going to love this.
The website's beautiful. I looked at it for hours at work today. Real quality. You can tell it’s a topnotch product.
On the homepage, there’s like hot young people. They're running along some blue beach. Laughing, having fun. It's like paradise. And there's a poem by Rumi on the left. The writing is minimal, stylish, elegant. It blends into the gorgeous photo like art. There's prompts in the bottom right corner, like Why Prana?, Philosophy, Products, Chillzone, and Recall Notice. And when you open these, there's like pages filled with Kabbalah, Tibeten and Yoga imagery, which I just love and is really so me.
I didn’t see any babies, but on this one page, Let the Right Choice Find You, there's a picture of those like Buddha toys arranged on a mat, with a little hand hovering over them. Like he's being tested to see if he's the Buddha. And the little hand is sort of hesitating, like over something that kind of looks like a dildo with tassels on it. Horny baby. Little perv.
Anyways, when you select the dildo— or any other item— it goes to this page with a buddhist prayer wheel. And it kind of like rotates so that you can highlight and select the Mega BTU— the Baby Transfer Unit— that you want to read about. Or you can just fill out the SAT, which is Sanskrit for pure essense.
It's like a personality quiz. It figures out how active you are and shit to find the perfect Prana to fill your lifestyle needs.
Because I am active, outgoing, gregarious, aware, esoteric, uncoventional, fearless— the SAT says Embrace the Fierceness Within, The Prana Red Tara- Che Revolution SR is the pram for you.
If you click on Inspiration/Essense, it gives a description of the Red Tara. It says,
in Tibetan Buddhism, Tara is an important diety, born in primordial time... There are different aspects of the Tara— Red, White, Yellow and Green. Red Tara— the Kurukulla, like you, is the fearless, magnifying goddess. A female Buddha. A fierce sexy Bodhisattva. The giver of life, the protector across all of existence and life's oceans. It is no coincidence she is regarded as the goddess of love, sex and magicks... Red Tara— The Magnetic Enchantress, Bewitching Seductress, Consort of Avalokiteswara and sometimes of Vairochana.
And it like goes on about her seven eyes and lotuses on her shoulders and shit, but whatever. You can also click on the Yellow Tara and Green Tara models, but I'm just not into that other Tara shit.
And there's a quick bio of Che Gueverra, who I already knew by the picture, but learned was like a rebel. A cool guy with a beret. A guy who didn't go along with the herd. An individual. A communist. Who followed his own Truth. Who owned his Truth. And in the same spirit as Che Gueverra, the buggy blazes an exceptional life path. Even if it is on the outside, on the fringes, difficult, where the timid and the conventional fear to go.
Own Truth.
Extreme Your Serene.
Prana Red Tara- Che Revolution SR
And then you click on the purchase information button.
It was weird. Like these people could read my mind. This was so me. I needed this. This was the only option. This was suited for the active urban spiritual mother— for the perfect mother— which I was going to be. And it would really help me shed the pregnancy pounds. There was no end to the features.