ss1

Validation
2005-05-30 - 11:54 p.m.


before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook






Main Entry: val�i�da�tion
Pronunciation: "va-l&-'dA-sh&n
Function: noun
: an act, process, or instance of validating; especially : the determination of the degree of validity of a measuring device : getting hit on by teenage girls:


 


I sat in the coffeshop by myself, playing my chrome nickel plated steel guitar.  I was wearing black velvet pants and a tight black t-shirt from a charity gig an hour earlier, with two days of facial scruff. Still made it to the coffee shop.  Surprised how natural it is for me to play there alone, after playing with other people for so long.


Anyway, two teenage girls walk in, and eventually were sitting on the couches across from me.  Cute, but not really sexy.  Too young to be truly sexy. 


I played, and before too long we spoke.  The more we spoke, the more I noticed they orbited around me, getting closer each time.  That, and they looked at my crotch about four times for every sentence they spoke.  One was a brunette, one was a blond with enormous breasts for such a young girl.  And, sincerely, no girls looked like this when I was in high-school.  They say its something in the milk, but I disagree.  If this was true, then there would be a lot of calfs walking around with huge udders, and there isn't any.  (after all, they drink the same milk...nm)


I found out lots about them.  So cute and fresh faced.  Earnest.  Life hadn't fucked them over yet, and I wasn't about to.  One was attatched to her cell phone.  She called and talked to a friend.


"Yah, we're sitting in the coffeeshop, talking to this guitar playing guy."


(is he hot?)


"YAH!  He's a TEN!" she exclaimed.


Be still, my ego.  How shallow and sad if me.


Later on in the night, my karam corrected itself when I was rudely hit upon by two very fat very obnoxious women who groped me and put their extremely large asses on me.


I stood by the fire at Micks psuedo-party trying to get warm at three in the morning.  These two homely women would not leave me alone.  They started standing in front of me, putting their asses to the fire, warming them, and putting them on me.


"IS THAT WARM?  IS THAT WARM?"  they asked over and over.


No.  Its fucking gross.  My libido and genetalia were still.


"No."


"THAT'S NOT WARM?"  one asked.


"ARE YOU DRUNK?  ARE YOU HIGH?  ARE YOU MARRIED?  ARE YOU GAY?" one asked in rapid fire fashion.


This was after both made repeated attempts to touch my face.  That shit peeves me off.  Don't touch my fucking head.  


"No."


I left it hang out there, though, and I can only imagine they got the hint.  'No, I'm not gay, its just that you and your behavior are entirely repllent to me, and I'm too nice a guy to tell you and your nasty assed friend to fuck off'. 


Because I've been through that before.  There is no joy in that situation.  You come out looking like an ass.


And really, I have no problem with aggressive girls.  But the reality of it all is:  if there is no connection, leave it the fuck alone.


Still, I must have been looking good that night.


 


a template by wicked design

about comment designer archive archives newest diaryland

tml>