…that I won’t start posting chapters from this novel, since no one actually READS chapters of unpublished novels from obscure blogs. I’m oddly excited about it and will likely randomly post snippets for critical inquiry and/or the shear hell of it.
I must say, I think I may have lied. I’m thinking the semi-autobiographical thing is more entertaining than some modern Shakespearian shake up (and it’s really weird that artichokeshavehearts posted an encouraging comment minutes before I copied and pasted this little entry…talk about serendipity…thank you, Artichoke. I always knew they had hearts).
I need to stress that this is SEMI-autobiographical, since there’s no way in hell my friends and family would ever approve of the real story. Not that I would blame them…
I snagged the first line at Six Word Memoirs and their “A Life in Bites” contest. If this is ever published, I’m probably going to owe someone some kind of royalty.
I should also mention that all the names of the characters are completely fictional.
*deep breathe*
“It’s not you. It’s the garlic.” He didn’t think she noticed that he was picking his nose while saying this. Oh. She noticed. And also confirmed for the 400th time why she broke up with Aaron Chekowski four years before.
“Are you kidding me? Is it that bad?” She held her hand up to her mouth and huffed out a few breaths, checking to see if Aaron was right, since despite his lack of table manners, he had always been honest. During a drunken New Year’s Eve battle she hauled off and punched him in the arm for calling his in-the-closet best friend a f-g. The night after, when it was obvious that their short-lived union had come to a palpable end, he mentioned that brute force was a major turn-off, and if she ever hit him again he would never talk to her, regardless of their status. And, “It hurrrt!” She tried to back peddle, claiming that his lack of sensitivity in regards to his best friend’s sexual orientation was sufficient cause for an ass whipping, but got his point. Don’t punch men. They have nerve endings too.
“Well, as long as your date doesn’t mind your pie hole smelling like a f—-g Italian Restaurant…” He wiped the snot on the side of the bucket seat of her beat-up station wagon.
“Did you just wipe a booger on my seat?” She glared at him from the driver’s side, digging her finger nails into the tan steering wheel.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. That’s disgusting. Get out of my car.”
Luckily for Aaron, Roxanne was pulling up to his house, “So, ah, see ya later. And I didn’t pick my nose.”
“DID TOO!”
P.S. (and totally unrelated to the post) I don’t care what anyone says, I’m going to see Mama Mia Friday. And I’ll probably be going alone, so keep your eyes peeled for a chair dancing solo artist at your local movie theater. Oddly, I never liked ABBA when my college roommates overplayed their tunes in 1996.
You Said It