The taser jacket for women. Granted, it’s still in the conceptual phase, but still, watch the videos. Part of me is disgusted that we live in a world where such an article of clothing is even necessary.
The other part thinks that tiny electric sparks and “evil” crackling sounds are very cool. Almost sexy.
Almost.
Those tiny red spider looking things? You know, the ones that explode into red stains when you so much as look at them sternly?
I’ve wondered what those are for years. I remember as a child in grade school, wondering just where they came from. Usually the tip of my pencil would find one of them, racing across the top of my desk. The pencil would then, magically become a red ballpoint pen before running out of “ink” and turning back into a pencil. They feed on plants, which is probably why I never saw them in my house while I was growing up. (My parents had a wonderfully watered dust yard.)
So again, in case you were wondering–Clover mites.
I saw her when I entered the drugstore. She was a lean build, black hair, fair complexioned. Something about her just seemed familiar, so watched as she rung up another customer. She looked up, caught my gaze. I smiled. She smiled back.
I went to the back to pick up dental floss and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
Surprisingly, the line had disappeared and I found myself at her register.
“Kumusta,” she said, and smiled.
I smiled back, automatically registering the word as “How are you?”
As I answered her in English, the smile faded. I wondered if I had done something wrong.
How could I answer her in Tagalog? The words flow from my mouth like chunks of curdled milk, leaving a bad taste in the wake of their butchered pronunciation. Soon, the memory of our shared smile disappeared as she treated me like any other customer, sounding almost impatient when I looked for change.
As I left the drugstore, I looked down at the receipt, hoping to find her name. Only her identification number stared back at me. I threw it in the garbage. I wasn’t sure if I was disgusted with myself for not knowing a single word to respond to her, or her sudden change in attitude.
Either way, I had to get the ice cream home before it melted.
Didn’t really expect to compare the McGriddle breakfast sandwich to masturbation, but–oh well.
Blech.
Update & Translation: By “Blech,” I mean, “Don’t get me wrong, I like the sweet and salty combination of maple syrup, pancakes, and really good sausage. It’s just the McGriddle is a textureless mushy, approximation of the previously mentioned combination. Just leaves you wanting the real thing. Basically, it is a pale imitation of the original. Vanilla Coke in the plastic bottle is one example. Another example is a solo activity that you normally don’t mention in polite company.”
So, anyway, now I’m not hungry, but I have that aftertaste where all the McPolymers are stuck everywhere, and my teeth feel like I’m having some sort of dental work.
I’m going to go brush my teeth, and then finish my orange juice.