Sumo Wrestler

Posted in Uncategorized by anna on May 18, 2009

There should be a finite amount of time designated to think about a person who ultimately doesn’t matter.

Say I found a sumo wrestler with a preternatural awareness of my mind, or answers a projection in the sky like Batman. I’m sure I could find one on Craigslist under “domestic gigs” or something. And every time I think about you for over an hour per day, that sumo wrestler will crash through my window and headlock me and for one brief moment, as my skull threatens to cave in between his sweaty elbows, I won’t be thinking about the kind of genes your parents must have had to make your eyes so green. A deus ex machina for hire.

All this thinking is a waste because, like I said, you don’t matter. It doesn’t feel that way right now because it is intense and prolonged but shelved in the back of my head behind the churning emotions and analysis of every look and conversation is the knowledge that you will soon be replaced by someone else cute and blank enough to project on.

It happens so often that eventually, even the sumo wrestler would give up on me. I’d give him his last paycheck and he’d wish me good luck with sympathy glittering in his little black eyes and I’d watch as his massive, fat-rolled back disappeared down the street. He’d be shaking his head and I’d know he was thinking, “Damn, girl, he’s just not that into you.”

Because, yeah. He’s never that into me.

But he’s just part of a cycle. He’s a season. He barely exists for me except as a passing thing, like bird flu or Chinese slippers or the word “phat,” and eventually, all by himself, he will fade away.


The thing about the baby shoes

Posted in Uncategorized by anna on May 7, 2009

 The thing about the baby shoes.

First of all, they were prominently displayed in the front of the store.  This was obviously a strategic move on the part of the management conceived at an after-hours Shoe Palace team brainstorm. Yo, idea– they’ll look at the tiny infant Minnetonkas and they’ll keep walking as if pulled by an invisible forcefield to the rest of the shoe family, extending their shopping time, which in turn is more likely to culminate with a purchase. “Great idea, Steve!” Fuck you, Steve.

Second of all, it was a second, a mille-fraction-of-a-second if that’s an existing unit of time, that I held up the shoe. And in that mille-fraction I wasn’t thinking about you. I was admiring the design, and how tiny they can make things you usually see on big people. Because bitches on the street wear Minnetonka moccasins all the time but they don’t have that kind of effect on me.

So like, I wasn’t performing some weird domestic tableau in your general direction to make some kind of retarded point. Not everything is about you and the stupid boat shoes you found after you retreated to the back of Shoe Palace. Honestly, I have never seen a grown man move like that. You were a blur. You were the fucking Road Runner.

Just because I held up a pair of baby shoes and said, “These are cute.”

I didn’t say, “These are cute especially on the baby we should have.”

Or “These are cute and lets send it to magnet school because public schools are anonymous and private schools have drug problems.”

Don’t worry, because someday in the super-ultra-future when I buy baby shoes for my baby, said baby’s father will be a man. Not a mouse, or a guy who wears boat shoes.

Besides, it feels like I already have a baby. I have to take you shoe shopping for God’s sake.