We’d wondered about the ghost in the neighborhood for a really long time. Me and my boyfriend had, I just told you about it. Then last night with no warning my boyfriend mentioned that he’d seen him at the Food Pit, up close, in person, a few days before, without telling me.
The Food Pit is the real-life name of the gas station/convenience store in our neighborhood. I guess it’s like the Peach Pit in the original 90210, except a bit more honest. They didn’t serve or sell the stones of fruit at the Peach Pit. The Food Pit sells “food,” and it is a bit of a hole.
I have had a craving for grape bubblegum so fierce I might just go pee on a plastic stick just to prove what I already know: I’m not pregnant. But I’m so psyched out over wanting grape gum I’ve even got him eating like there’s no tomorrow–he’s hysterically pregnant now. Life is cray-cray up in here. And it’s harder to find grape bubblegum than one would think, just to twist the knife.
We were both so happy about the grape gum (and the Lifesavers that the boyfriend got, a really nasty kind that I haven’t learned to get a taste for yet–I’m like a bacterium when it comes to sweets. I can learn to eat about any kind there is if it’s the only thing around, but I do have my preferences), that he forgot to tell me about the Ghost!
The Ghost was standing in front of him in line at the Food Pit. The Ghost is in his mid-forties. There are two wireless speakers attached to the handlebars of his bicycle. And he isn’t a ghost. He is a man, made of meat and bones and skin, not ectoplasm and fear and regret and longing.
“I think he’s a connect,” my boyfriend said.
And it all clicked! Of course. The music, the bike, the slow roll, the night, the reason we’re fascinated with him, the everything. He’s the ice cream man.
He has a reason to be out. He’s just going for a ride. Anyone can stop to talk to him. And they can hear him coming, so they get their money together and then come out of their houses. And the cops don’t have any reason to stop this guy. He’s just sharing the joy of music with the neighborhood. He probably isn’t a big time guy. Maybe he’s just making deliveries for the club, I don’t know.
I have no proof this is what’s up. I don’t know his life. But suspected small fish rolling through the neighborhood is far less interesting than undead spirit riding a ghost trick bike across the earth. I’m still considering this mystery solved.
Dear Fellow Member of Society,
Here we both are, swimming upstream in this. I do not know where you need to spawn. I do not care. That’s not my business. We will both eventually die in the abyss.
I am sorry my arbitrary set of rules and regulations I have created for myself and crystallized my behavior around conflicts with yours.
I realize in the grand scheme of things neither of them matters more than the other. It doesn’t really matter if there’s space for pedestrians in front of you or behind me or if someone’s in the intersection or if someone has eleven items in a line at a checkstand or if you aren’t carpooling or if you don’t cover your mouth or whatever fifty years from now when I’m dead or dying. I won’t care then. But right now I’m caught in minutia because they give me the illusion of control over something, just something, anything, a slippery sense of falling off into the void, and you got in the way. You got in the way of my feeling powerful over loss of ego. Ego is really what I need to lose.
I am sorry if I made you feel less that the amount of respect other human beings deserve. I’m working on it, but sometimes I need to work harder than others. I am sorry if I hurt you.
Hey, this is nasty. So just brace yourself for nasty. You knew I was inappropriate. I can’t turn this shit off.
I often feel like there’s something wrong with me–PROBABLY BECAUSE THERE IS–and like everyone is staring at me (I’m really not interesting enough on the outside for them to be–or am I?) but I don’t often feel like everyone can smell me. I bathe on the regular. I mean daily. Sometimes three times a day, if the man is over and I’m going to get some. I mean we’re going to have conjugal relations. S in the E-X. I guess that would be E-S-X. Which is how we do, because we are kinky.
So I couldn’t figure why I smelled like a truck stop toilet. Like really bad, and coming from my Netherlands. And right after I took a shower. What the fuck? I guessed I had an infection in the ol’ punani (my punani is old as the hills), which is terrible, horrible, very bad. And away from home! But the thing is: I wasn’t doing anything different, and this was the sickeningest odor ever.
For reals, my ‘nani smelled like a Gateway to Hell. Usually, I can clear up [I am not a doctor and this is so not recommended] a yeast or bacterial infection with a couple of drops of tea tree oil on a tampon and shove that shit up there and I’m good to go. So I went to the store to get my oil and felt ashamed. I hoped they just thought I stepped in shit.
And I did my poor lady cure-all. And it helped a little. But I had just had my period and–OH SWEET JESUS NO. NO PLEASE GOD NO….
OH yes. I had left a plug up there and I didn’t know how long it had been up there. At least 36 to 48 hours. But maybe even longer than that. I didn’t remember when I last put a tampon in, I really didn’t. It was Sunday and the last time I remembered anything tampon-related was Thursday. This has always been a fear of mine. I’ve even been to the doctor before because I thought I had one in (didn’t).
AND it took some doing to get it down. I did it myself, but yeah. Might have to do with the posterior cervix. Don’t know, don’t care, it’s done.
But Seer: how did it smell?
AND it smelled like a demonic abortion. Like I had had an incident with an incubus and then thought better of the whole affair and found a priest to exorcise that shit with a holy coat hanger. Like the soul of all the urinal cakes in all of the Port-a-Potties in all of Coachella. Like the afterbirth of the Echidna, after she pushed Chimera and Cerberus and Hydra and the rest out. (Did you know/remember they were siblings? Yeah.)
AND I don’t feel sick. Doubt that I have toxic shock syndrome. It’s really systemic sepsis–a full-on staph infection. Ladies usually get it from dirty hands touching their coochies when they put in a tampon (of course, toilets are straight up ill) and then you get pregnant–with staph. Congratulations! It’s sepsis!
SO, that happened. What did you do today? Oh.
Sparrow didn’t grow up in a rich-ish part of Oakland, but her folks live in one now. Oh, let me clarify something. People who don’t live anywhere near the Bay Area sometimes assume Oakland is like Bartertown or something. It’s not. Oakland is huge, and it’s like LA or Chicago or DC or Brooklyn. There are sketchy parts, and gorgeous parts with multi-million dollar mansions. Unlike New York, though, the ghetto goes on for larger stretches, and the bourgie areas are bigger. It isn’t like a checkerboard, block by block, with abandominums across from co-ops across from the projects across from brownstones. You can drive everywhere and not see really poor people–or really rich ones–if you don’t want to.
Mood in here is crankypants! This post is rambling!
What’s worse than moving? Debt! What’s worse than debt? Moving and debt! Add a hint of blame and serve. Oh for the love of Ke$ha, I’m having some issues lately. My move is getting more exciting by the day.
So I’ve told you once about the first identified bunny, who shall now be called Butterscotch.
And I’ve said I’ll try to make work issues interesting to others, but this is written for one person, really. I keep rewriting this to anonymize it more and more and more, even though I don’t give a fuck, because I don’t want to hurt the people who have to show up on Monday, and my stats tell me people are sharing this work-related shit on Facebook and I can’t tell who it is. Hello, Facebook! Hello to you!
I’m sure some of you have figured out what my profession is (the rest of you don’t have more than the vaguest of interests), but all you need to know is I work at places with databases. In this last place I was at, we have a public facing database of our products. You can search it from the web and see our inventory. Easy-peasy. This is not difficult to understand. And yet, one department in our organization could not fucking grasp it. Or maybe they just couldn’t let go of the pickle and get their hand out of the jar so as to grasp it, I don’t know.