soapboxdiner

I have tales. Tales to remember

Do you ever feel like all the really interesting stories that have happened in your life are behind you?

Like I remember just turning 21. I'd gone to visit an ex-lover and was greeted instead by a house full of strangers. Linc (obviously, short for Lincoln) a 6 foot 3 pile of massive handsome manhood, was there with this trophy girl (dressed predictably like Pamela Anderson Lee and possessing roughly the same IQ.)

We all played cards and were having a good time until way after the adolescent Barbie's (the Pamela wannabe) bedtime. She went home and the good times continued. It was tough, but we were strong; we persevered without her breasts for entertainment.

Suddenly, Linc became possessed by that demon that men sometimes become possessed by when they're drinking and not getting any action: The Asshole Demon. So much so, I could no longer contain that demon women sometimes become possessed by when they are drinking and presented with The Asshole Demon men sometimes transfigure into when drinking: The I Must Squash This Asshole Demon. That being the case, I made one (perhaps, right?) too sarcastic comment that the Asshole Demon could not deal with in a civilized manner; or more rightly, my sarcasm was beyond his scope of intellect just far enough so that he "got" it but couldn't think of an apt retort. These, I tell you, are the moments I live for.

That being the case, Linc chose emotion over biting witticisms. He instead chose to spit in my face.

Oh, The Asshole Demon had marked a line with slobber that the This Asshole Demon Must Be Squashed Demom could not pass. But pass she did, regardless. And with great profundity and joy.

It's the little things that make life memorable and exciting, right?

Right.

And so, the Asshole Demon, still woefully lacking in verbosity, picked me up and throw me into the wall and left me to slump painfully into a heap of party trash.

Today, I still remember that. However, it's a shame neither of us remembered two years later, when He Who Had No Car (that would be Linc, aka The Asshole Demon) sat in the backseat of my Crystler Newport (arguably the largest car ever put on the road without a commercial license) and molested my neck with his mouth while we made our way to the club.

Between bouts of (my) serious lack of concentration brought about by hormone excess, he would throw our beer bottles out the window of my speeding car. A good thing, too, because two blocks shy of the club I got pulled over for driving a dangerous 40 miles per hour. (Today, and then, I'm really glad that's as far as it went between Linc and I.)

(And can you tell that I can still feel his teasing ardor on me?)

These are prime examples of why I am both thankful and nostalgic for the passing of the good old days. So much more entertaining than tales of the kid bashing me in the head with plastic Power Rangers when I inform him that it's time to get out of bed.

5:00 pm - 09.24.02
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