Tuesday, October 7, 2014

injaynesworld "Things Go Missing..."

I’ve misplaced a brain cell.  Not just any brain cell; the one containing the pin number to my checking account.  To be fair, it wasn’t a pin of my choice, but when first given to me two years ago after a large bank gobbled up my small bank, it seemed easy enough to remember and so I kept it.

I love ATMs.  Just the idea that you can put in a plastic card and it gives you money never fails to thrill me.  I usually take out $20 at a time.  Sure I could take out $100, but then I wouldn’t get to play the game as often.  With most of my thrills behind me, I cling to little shit like this. 

It’s just a tad pathetic.  I know.  Where was I?

Oh, yes:  The missing brain cell.  Because I rarely carry a lot of cash, I use my debit card like a slot machine junkie at a casino and I’ve probably punched in that same pin number hundreds of times  always confident that it was lodged securely in my brain and it was – until this past week.

Trader Joe’s on a Saturday afternoon is not the time or place you want to have a brain fart.  

With a month’s worth of cheap wine and pumpkin ice cream already packaged up I slid my debit card through the slot like a pro and that’s when it happened:  “Enter Pin Number.”  As surely as if someone had robbed me at gunpoint, the goddamn brain cell charged with the retaining of that information was nowhere to be found.  I knew it started with a two and ended with a zero.  You’d think with enough combinations I could have hit on it, “enough” being the key word here.  But you don’t get enough.  You only get three tries and then you’re locked out.  Fuck.

The line of people behind me was not amused when I had to pull out my checkbook – yes, a checkbook – and write out the payment in longhand on paper like some relic from an era now studied in high school history classes.  As I pushed my cart from the store I’m pretty sure I heard one of them mutter “poor thing.”

I know our body sheds and replaces cells all the time, but lately I feel like I’m getting short-shifted on the replacement part.  I suspect the brain cell containing the pin number ran off with the brain cell containing my Facebook password, which I also had to replace recently.

Why the hell can’t I lose fat cells this easily?

Sunday, September 28, 2014

injaynesworld it's "The Fix-Up..."

Was it a blue jacket with a gray-and-red striped tie or a gray jacket with a blue-and-gray striped tie?  Scanning the bar area, Sarah saw only young men dressed in leather. 

She made her way across the room, slid onto a barstool and ordered a Jack Daniels neat, something else she’d never done before the divorce, but had always liked the way it sounded when uttered by self-possessed women on TV. 

Maybe he’d said Luke’s on Fifth near the bay and here she was at Duke’s on Fifteenth.   

Freud said there are no mistakes… or was that Jung?

From this week’s Five Sentence Fiction prompt “confusion.”

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

injaynesworld it's my "Sanity Maintenance..."

You awaken to a world pressing in on you for attention.  Your mind speeds ahead before your bare feet even touch the floor.  But for him, you would dive back under the covers.

Turning down the dusty driveway, you pull up to the red, shed-row barn where he stands in his paddock under the shade of a tall Eucalyptus tree, his long neck low and relaxed as he drinks deeply from his water trough.  You step from the car and before you can make a sound his head rises, quickly turns in your direction, ears alert to your presence.

“How’s my handsome boy today?”

His nostrils flare open and shut at the sound of your voice and he moves towards the door to his stall, his muscles rippling beneath a gleaming coat the rich color of dark cocoa beans. 

Standing nearly 65 inches at the withers, your own slight, five-foot frame is not even tall enough for you to see over his long back. Yet every day, in trust and faith, you climb onto that back always marveling that he will permit you do so. 

He sticks his head out the top of his stall door, watching you approach. You kiss the soft spot at the front of his nose and breathe lightly into his nostrils, mingling his breath with your own and your heart swells with love.

Nuzzling your pockets, he nickers softly, seeking the treat he knows you have brought him; a carrot, half an apple, or maybe a cube of sugar.  He gobbles it down and greedily nudges you for more as you reach up to slip the halter over his massive head. You fasten the buckle, then run your hand down the side of his neck, as soft and slick as satin, give him a pat, and lead him from the stall.

Outside the barn gate your world continues with all its demands, but for now you are in his world.

What's your sanity maintenance?

Monday, September 15, 2014

injaynesworld "Are You Fucking Kidding Me Edition..."

Urban Outfitters, are you fucking kidding me?

A fake vintage Kent State sweatshirt in a blood-spatter design?    

What’s next?  Columbine baseball caps with bullet holes?   Maybe Sandy Hook backpacks complete with dead child doll?  And when’s the UC Santa Barbara version available?

I was around at the time of Kent State.  I watched the images play out across my black-and-white TV screen and felt the horror of seeing the U.S. government turn its guns on children.  I feel the shock and pain of it to this day.    

But you know, I have to thank you.  Just when I was afraid that I’d become numb to the ugliness of the world, that I’d lost my humanity and with it my ability to feel outrage anymore, you come along with your insensitivity to the countless families who have lost loved ones to hideous, senseless gun violence and show me that I am still capable of feeling shock and disgust. 

Whether perpetrated by mental deviants who walk among us or by those charged with serving and protecting, the National Guardsmen who fired on and killed those four innocent students at Kent State in 1970 and the police responsible for the murder of Michael Brown, such tragedies should be marked with tears, not souvenirs. 

And to the dirtbags who actually bought this sweatshirt?   Are you fucking kidding me?! 

Update:  Urban Outfitters has issued this statement:  "It was never our intention to allude to the tragic events that took place at Kent State in 1970 and we are extremely saddened that this item was perceived as such … There is no blood on this shirt nor has this item been altered in any way. The red stains are discoloration from the original shade of the shirt and the holes are from natural wear and fray."

Yeah.  I buy that…

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

injaynesworld we're "Ready for Takeoff..."

Clara settled into the first-class seat and closed the shade on the land they were about to depart.  She shook a single ten-milligram pill from its container and tossed it to the back of her throat as the stewardess handed her a glass of Chardonnay.  Tipping it to her lips, she washed down the pill, then handed back the empty glass and pulled the blanket up around her neck. 

“If we’re about to crash, please don’t wake me.”

And no one did. 
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