Inside My Head

the literary rantings of Angie Frissore


“Abby, look, I always made it clear I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” The Coworker muttered.

“What?” I asked, confused.  “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I’m just saying, you get all worked up over things…”

“Damon, let’s take a step back,” I said.  “And count the many ways in which I’m way smarter than you and marvel at the ease in which you back yourself into a corner.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone as he took it all in.  I wasn’t sure how we got on the topic of his lack of desire to commit to a relationship, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easy, not that time.

“What are you talking about?” The Coworker asked, annoyed.

“Well, as much as I do love debating these issues with you,” I said, sarcastically, “your argument is pretty weak.”

“How so? I always told you that.”

“Damon, I was angry with you because once again, I wasted my Sunday waiting on you to let me know what was up.  At some point during the day, you obviously made a decision as to how your night would be spent, and the root issue here is that you never bothered to convey that decision to me.”

“My night got carried away, what can I say?” he muttered, stumbling for words.

“Whatever dude,” I quipped angrily. “I’m getting tired of waiting for you to grow up and stop hiding behind your little shield of ‘not wanting a relationship’.  We’re talking basic interpersonal skills here.”

I hung up the phone without another word – not angrily, but I had just grown so tired of having the same conversation over and over again each time this happened.  I had gone as far, in the past, as to insinuate that this thing we had was simply a glorified booty call for both of us, to which he passionately feigned offense, outraged that I could hold him in such low regard.  Arguing with him was worse than going through the wrong door and ending up on the Rotor, that spinning-floor-dropping-stick-you-to-the-wall amusement park ride.  All I was left with usually was a sense of dizziness and nausea.

Just as I went to put the phone down, it rang again.  Without checking the caller ID, I angrily answered.

“Damon, listen, I’m not doing this now,” I yelled.




“David?” I asked, horrified.  “Holy shit, I’m so sorry! I thought you were someone else!”

“Wow,” he laughed. “I’m glad I’m not that guy!  Who’s Damon?”

“Oh, no one…it’s nothing.”


November 24, 2008 Posted by | No Messages - Excerpts from the Draft | , , | 1 Comment

cry wolf.

They tend to learn,
after awhile, that is
to ignore the persistence
and willpower
of the apocryphal heartaches
and spurious negativity
but should the wolf of
veritable affliction
begin to skulk from the shadows
who will take notice?

November 24, 2008 Posted by | Poetry | | Leave a comment


Innocuously slipping into obscurity
the development of this soul
strayed from ambitious original
and fell into the hands
of charlatans

November 24, 2008 Posted by | Poetry | | 1 Comment

Date Night with The Coworker

I paced the living room nervously, unable to keep myself from glancing at the clock every few seconds.  I had agonized over what to wear, finally settling on a slimming, grey scoop-neck sweater and jeans, and was still at risk of a last-minute-mad-dash to the closet for another emergency change.  The key was to not go upstairs.

Staring at my phone, I began to grow restless as it got later and later into the evening.  I knew The Coworker was on his way, but I couldn’t, for the life of me, imagine how it could possibly take that long to get to my house.   Taco paced around my feet, wondering what was making me so nervous. Finally, the phone rang.

“Abby,” he stated, in his deep, sultry voice that didn’t quite seem to fit his body.  “I’m just coming off the highway.  Where am I going again?”

I coached him through the mile and a half of back roads, and hung up the phone to do one last once-over for good measure.  Another ten minutes passed before I saw headlights creep by the driveway, stop, and suddenly back up.  I stepped out onto the front porch and waved him up the driveway, trying to hide my slight annoyance at the delay.

He was better looking than I had remembered, but he had cut his hair.  As he stepped out of the car, I playfully tussled his now-short hair and smiled.

“What happened to your shaggy hair?” I asked.  “That was so….sexy.”

“My mother said I looked like a drug dealer,” he laughed, opening the car door for me.

I suggested a local steak house for dinner, and we were soon on our way downtown.   I couldn’t help but remark on his car, which was a relatively new Dodge Charger.

“This is a great car,” I said, taking a look in the back seat.  “I’ve always wanted to drive in one of these.”

“Thanks…” he trailed off.  “It’s a rental.”

“A rental?”

“Yeah.  My car isn’t really, uh, date-worthy.”

“How so?” I asked, laughing slightly.

“Well, you do want to make it home this evening, correct?” he asked, grinning.  I was torn between being impressed by his chivalry in renting an adequate mode of transportation for the evening, and being slightly horrified at the prospect of dating a man with an unreliable car.
“Well,” I said, coyly, “I guess that all depends on how the date goes.”

The restaurant was remarkably empty when we arrived, despite it being a Friday night.  The dining room was dotted with elderly couples and the occasional bus boy.  The hostess led us to a corner table, where The Coworker took his seat next to me, rather than across from me.  This guy was good.

We struggled to make small talk throughout dinner, until I finally could no longer contain myself and burst into giggles.  Before long, both of us erupted in laughter.

“I feel like a science experiment in here,” I said, leaning in closer to him.  “Is this as sketchy to you as it is to me?”

“I bet that’s a two-way mirror,” he laughed, pointing across the room.  “We’re being studied!”

We finished our meals, and having broken the ice with what seemed like a twisted sociological experiment in the abandoned restaurant, got to know each other slightly better.  I still couldn’t quite put him together though – there was something mysterious about him, a quiet, understated confidence that led me to imagine what lied beneath his Romanesque features and sly smile.

As we pulled into the driveway, I tried to think of a way of inviting him inside without giving him the impression that he was going to get any sort of action.  I wasn’t ready for the date to be over.

“It really sucks that you have to get up so early,” The Coworker said as he parked the car.  “What time is your flight?”

“Six,” I said.  “But it’s okay.  I’d already planned on just getting in a cat nap tonight.  I never sleep well before I fly, as if I’m afraid I won’t wake up.”

“I definitely would not get up,” he joked.   “So listen, I know you need to get some rest, but I have some weed if you wanna hang for just a little bit longer?”  Smitten, I tried to keep myself from grinning ear to ear.

“I think I can afford a bit more time,” I said, smiling.  “But no funny business.”

“Scout’s honor.”

November 21, 2008 Posted by | No Messages - Excerpts from the Draft | , , | 2 Comments

growing up.

watching the dance of the distant colorful blinking lights

cutting fantastical rays through dark November fog

while miles away you while away

days chasing after an idealism

deficient in substance

I no longer call to mind

our little fairy tale.

November 21, 2008 Posted by | Poetry | , , | Leave a comment

“I don’t need to sleep; I don’t even need to breath…”

I struggled though the crowd of passengers as I hauled my overtired body down the jet way, desperately trying to maintain the last bit of physical energy I had left for the second leg of my trip.  I had barely managed to squeeze in roughly two hours of sleep, and even though I had showered and prepared myself, I was sticky with sweat and wishing I hadn’t worn my beat up Sox hat.

As hordes of people rushed by me, I walked almost in slow motion through the terminal, paying more attention to my cell phone than to my surroundings.  Once a signal was found, my phone sounded the ever-familiar alert that I was hoping for.

1 new message.  It was from The Coworker.

I really hope I get to see you when you come home.

I made no attempt to hide the sleepy smile that crept across my face as I came to a stand still in the middle of the terminal.

But of course, I texted back.  I can’t wait.

I was hoping to hear from him, but had prepared myself to not be let down if there was no immediate communication.  After all, I had bigger things to focus on for the time being.  I was headed to Sacramento to meet my new niece for the first time.  There was, however, an underlying suspicion over the issue of follow up from The Coworker: I had behaved myself.  Torn between self-pride and fears of being labeled an unworthy prude, I tried to remain positive and hope that he was better than that.

I certainly had wanted to misbehave.  It would have been so easy; the two of us in my room, sharing a joint, listening to some music in the quiet lateness of the early, early morning.  But now…now I had the assurance that the sexual tension would simply grow until it eventually overtook us both.

Sighing, I made my way over to the gate’s service booth purely out of curiosity’s sake.

“Hi there,” I said, wearily.  “Do you happen to have any upgrades available for the 710 to Sacramento?”

“Let me just check on that,” stated a very well put-together woman in her late thirties, smiling happily.  “We sure do, I can put you in business class for forty dollars.”

“You just made my day,” I said, relieved. “Let’s do it.”

November 21, 2008 Posted by | No Messages - Excerpts from the Draft | , , | 3 Comments

Don’t be that guy.


Samantha showed up at the house sporting a tight black tube top and a pair of ripped-up, skin-tight Calvin Klein jeans. Her arrival was an obvious event, as the sounds of whooping cat calls from passing drivers filtered in through the window. I looked out to see her coming up the walkway.



She had some catching up to do. Jeff and I were well into our night-out-drinking pre-game ritual, having gorged ourselves on Big Macs and preparing to light another one of Jeff’s expertly rolled blunts.



This particular weekend’s big night out featured a drive into town to one of my favorite dives to see a really great band that had played in the past with Dear Leader. As per our usual arrangement, Jeff had agreed to do the driving, given that my car would be the night’s transportation. Jeff was not only one of a few select people I would willingly entrust with my car, but more importantly, he was the only person I trusted to stay sober enough to actually get us home in one piece.



“Dude…” Jeff muttered, almost as if to himself. “Do you know what would be fantastic right now??”



Samantha and I looked at each other as Jeff passed me the blunt. We were waiting for it – the comment that was coming which would send us into giggling messes. “No…”I coughed. “I do not know what would be fantastic right now. But something tells me you do.”



“I do. And soon you will as well. But not until Samantha hits that, so then I can hit that, and then all shall be revealed.”



“Fuck that, we are on the verge of unlocking the secret to ultimate happiness here. Just tell us already!” I pleaded. I needed to know.



Jeff stared at me blankly for a few seconds.






I stared at Jeff blankly for a few seconds, stood up, grabbed my keys, and snatched the blunt out of Jeff’s hand.



“Jeff’s had enough. Let’s go.”





We got to the club as the first of several opening bands was just getting into their set. We made our way directly to the bar, which was ridiculously easy, considering we were more than likely the only patrons there over 21. I glanced around the half-empty room, almost nostalgic for the days when the veil of cigarette smoke masked the lonely, still-sober faces of 9:30 on a Saturday night.



“I feel like frickin’ Grandma Moses here,” Samantha whined, having almost finished her first drink already. While I knew where she was going with this, I couldn’t really protest…at this particular moment, there was not a good time to be had in the club. The downfall of all-ages shows is that it’s usually a sign of an underage band, which tends to draw only underage people.



“Yeah, and I feel like a pedophile,” Jeff muttered. “There are girls here that I definitely do not feel right looking at.”



And with that, I succumbed to Samantha’s peer pressure to venture out into the neighborhood to find a more suitable establishment for the time being.



“I don’t care where we go, but we’re coming back,” I stated assertively. “I am not missing this show.” I knew that once we found a new place to drink, Samantha would try to insist that we stay there.



We crossed Lexington Ave and entered the first bar we came across. A bored DJ was spinning 80’s hits to an empty dance floor as a handful of people sat at the bar. Samantha was scouting the place for someone – anyone – she could flirt with, while Jeff and I focused on the drinks we had just ordered and quietly people watched.



After awhile, the bar started to pick up as packs of college kids and other city dwellers circulated through. I had been left at the bar with a short, but relatively good looking Australian guy who had failed miserably at getting Samantha’s attention. Bored, I brushed off the creepiness of being hit on by one of Samantha’s rejects and allowed him to flirt with me. By this point, I was too drunk to really make out what he was saying, so I just acted as cute and flirty as I could to overcompensate for not having the slightest clue what he was talking about.



“Do you know what time it is?” I asked him, interrupting a story about boarding school in New Zealand and selling his art to Aborigines (I think).



“Um….yeah, it’s quarter past eleven,” he replied, unphased by my rudeness. I loved the liberty of being a woman, especially a drunk woman. Even the nastiest of behavior can be interpreted as cute on most occasions.



“Shit!” I spun around quickly, desperately looking for Samantha and Jeff. I spotted them near the door, as if I had been keeping them there unwillingly, and rushed over to them. The Aussie followed.



“We gotta go…now!” I stammered. The show was going to start any minute, and I was drunk, and I was not going to miss it. “And you too! You gotta come too.”



I grabbed the Aussie’s hand and the four of us made our drunken way back to the Hemingway. I was on a mission, and hadn’t noticed Samantha’s protests.



“You don’t need us there, man….come on, let’s back to the other bar,” she pleaded.



“No. No fucking way. I knew you’d pull this. I paid for your fucking ticket, we’re seeing this show.” I was starting to get angry. I did not like to be drunk and angry.



I walked back into the club with the Aussie in tow. A band was playing, but I was too drunk to tell which band.



“Dude….is this Taxpayer? Did I miss them?” I asked of a random bearded guy whose arm I had grabbed.



“I am Taxpayer.”



I stared blankly at him for a second. Had I really just done that? Had I really just asked the lead singer of the band whom I had paid to see if the band onstage was his?



“And I,” I offered, reaching out to shake his hand, “am an asshole!”



November 20, 2008 Posted by | No Messages - Excerpts from the Draft | , , | Leave a comment

Defeating The Demons of Damon

All I had wanted was a logical reason explaining why I had such a propensity to allow him back into my life with ease, only to be ultimately let down, over and over again.  I knew it couldn’t possibly be loneliness – I’d been lonely many, many times before and knew better than to use some unworthy, pathetic soul to fill an unknown void in my life.

It was more than that.  At times it was as if he had some kind of power over me – though he never claimed to love me I often acted as if he did anyway.  I let my whole psyche be influenced by his actions, his words, his lack of words, his lack of action.

His lack of action.

It would be very easy to sit back and absorb the blame, especially after identifying the root cause of my pseudo-obsession with him.  But he was no normal, morally-strong individual, no – he preyed on my weaknesses and exploited my feelings, oftentimes telling me what he thought I wanted to hear, but standing back safely behind his many excuses and ‘situations’.

Heaven knows I tried to walk away…often.  With each hostile final word, there would be a week or two of radio silence before his curiosity got the better of him and he tried to contact me.  And I always gave in.

This time around, I’m armed.  I know what always drew me to him, and it wasn’t him at all.  It was something altogether terrifying and reassuring at the same time.  It was something I could control. I was no longer emotionally at his mercy, and had made that fact poignantly clear to him.

November 12, 2008 Posted by | No Messages - Excerpts from the Draft | , , | 1 Comment


The morning of the vendor expo started smoothly – signage and tables had been set up the prior evening, and I sat at the registration table, gently arranging dozens of name tags and waiting for the attendees to arrive.

Once the expo got started, there wasn’t much for me to do aside from sit in the main room and get some work done on my laptop.  Everyone was scattered into various conference rooms as the various Asian vendors made elaborate presentations in hopes to sell their product to our buyers.  I made camp in a corner of the main conference room, which had been set up for breakfast, and got to work, happily munching on the last of the once-fresh croissants which had been provided.

How’s it going over there? Samantha asked in a mid-morning email.  She had been decidedly jealous over the fact that I was not going to be in the office.

So far so good
, I emailed back.  But it’s boring as hell during the meetings.

The various buyers and other staff floated in and out of the main room, as the first round of vendor meetings wrapped up.  I did my part to ensure that people knew where they had to be, and more importantly, got there without delaying the next meetings.

Once things were under control, I sat back down at my laptop, opened up an instant messenger program, and surfed the web for awhile.  About a half an hour later, a notification popped up that I had not seen in over a year.

n350z1975 is now on-line.

I swallowed hard as my heart began to pound.  The Face had not been seen on messenger since I had opted out of pursuing him, and suddenly, here he was at my fingertips.  I struggled with what to do next before taking a deep breath and launching an instant message.

I’m sorry for the way things worked out.  Hope you are doing well.

Quite nervous to witness the fallout of my actions, I closed the messenger program and tried to focus on work.  I sat, staring at the manufacturing database on my screen for a good ten minutes, before realizing that there was no way I was going to be productive.  I opened the messenger program again.

Oh my god, Abby? How are you? Where did you go?

My message had been well-received, causing me to breath a huge sigh of relief.  We chatted for the remainder of the afternoon, taking the occasional break here and there to check on my vendors and tend to my expo duties.  Before I headed into the day’s wrap-up meeting, we agreed that he’d call me that evening.  I didn’t have a whole lot of time to come up with a good answer to the impending question I knew I’d be faced with:  why did I walk away?

November 9, 2008 Posted by | No Messages - Excerpts from the Draft | , , | Leave a comment


I stared at the phone, knowing he wouldn’t call, but hoping it would ring anyway, before finally growing bored with the frustration of it all.  He wasn’t going to call back – he never called back when he said he would.   And thus begins the cycle.

I had fallen back into the routine of him; a sentimental moment of desire, confessions of some kind of emotion, and then, fall to the back burner and become merely an afterthought.  Perhaps there was a part of my subconscious that tried to negate feelings of single-hood-induced loneliness by clinging onto these tiny scraps of pseudo-relationship that we had between us.  Could I trust my so-called feelings when it came to Damon or was it simply just the manifestation of this desire to feel wanted by someone?

Somewhere early on in this…thing we had, he had dropped the bombshell announcement that he was never really looking for a committed relationship.  For all the times I tried to walk away, we were always brought back together.  I knew it would never be what I wanted – what I needed – it to be, and yet I continually subjected myself to this emotional torture.

On better days I attributed it to a greater meaning – some idealistic fantasy in which we’re destined to be together.  On most days, however, I simply compared my addiction to Damon to my addiction to nicotine – I knew it was bad for me, but I did it anyway.  Because it felt good.

And he did feel good.  The seldom times we did spend together were always mind-blowing and amazing, and laced with an underlying subtle romanticism that left me starry-eyed.  There was always a flip side though; there were the in-between times when I wanted to share things with him and I couldn’t.  He had always made it clear that he could never give me what I wanted, and I tried to convince myself that I really didn’t need him in that facet anyway.  But I did need him, on some level, and it seemed that my need for him would become my undoing.

The phone rang, startling me, and I looked to see who it was.  It was my mother.  Dejected, I sent the call directly to voicemail, turned the phone off, and went to bed.

November 6, 2008 Posted by | No Messages - Excerpts from the Draft | , , | 2 Comments

Trouble at the ‘Dise

I stood just to the right of the stage, with The Coworker by my side, unable to keep from noticing the small crowd of guys now gathered around us, looking at me.  Every time I looked up to see if I could still see Samantha, it was as if a line of men stood, smiling – ready and waiting to greet my gaze.  I leaned my head on The Coworker’s shoulder, sending the message that I was well accounted for as he kept his arm wrapped securely around my waist.

“Where’s Dougie?” The Coworker asked, eying the backstage area just to make sure his younger brother was keeping out of trouble.  I was nervous that Doug had come along for the ride, given his rambunctious and unlawful nature, and knowing full well that he would be completely out of his element.

“I didn’t realize it was my turn to baby-sit,” I joked, scanning the crowd.  “At least he’s not trying to stage dive again.”

“Yet,” The Coworker said nervously.  I couldn’t help but smile at his concern.  It was clear that he was nervous that his brother’s drunken antics would dampen the evening (this was certainly not an unfounded fear, given Doug’s personality),  but I found it sweet considering he knew how long I’d been looking forward to the show.  It was the first time I’d witnessed Damon be that concerned over something I’d cared a lot about.

“Baby, I’m gonna go grab us some more drinks,” Damon yelled into my ear.  I stared at him quizzically, pointing to the large speaker sitting directly next to us.  He pointed once to his beer, and again to the bar, before heading off into the crowd.

I looked towards the bar, checking to see if Samantha was still physically attached to the blonde Ken-doll-type she had been flirting with.  I wondered why I continued to bother bringing her to shows with us.

As I returned my attention to the stage, Doug suddenly appeared out of the corner of my eye…next to the stage ramp.  A sinking feeling instantly developed in my stomach as he meandered about, trying to look natural amidst the stage hands and club staff.  I secretly crossed my fingers and hoped for the best, until Doug made two failed attempts to get onstage before being pushed aside by the staff.

“Can you believe this idiot?” A random guy said to me, rolling his eyes.  “I’d hate to be here with that guy.”  I felt like cowering in a corner somewhere until the whole ordeal was over with.

“Oh shit,” The Coworker mumbled, alarmed, as he returned with drinks.  “Has he done anything stupid yet?”

“Yet?” I asked with a smirk.  “Or at this moment?”

As Doug continued to linger by the stage ramp, I started to grow more and more annoyed by his childish antics.  This was not one of his booze-filled ghetto rap parties, no – if there was ever an environment that was non-conducive to Doug’s immature and tasteless attempts at humor, the Dear Leader show at the Paradise was it.  I clenched my teeth, trying to stave off my growing anger.

“I swear to god if he fucks this up…” I trailed off, not taking my eyes off of Doug for a second.

“I’ll go corral him.”  The Coworker marched over to Doug, grabbing him by the arm and almost dragging him back to where we were standing.

“What the fuck dude?” Doug protested.  “What was that for?”

“Just shut up and stand there,” The Coworker instructed. “Otherwise, I’m leaving you here.”

“Can I at least go grab a beer?”

Doug ran off to the bar as The Coworker and I tried to enjoy what was left of the show.  As I stood in front of him, with his arms wrapped around my waist, I was grateful that for all of our differences…all of our misunderstandings, The Coworker was quite open to one thing I held dear: music.  Although his primary residence was in hip-hop land, he had an inquisitive mind and was surprisingly accepting of the lesser-known indie bands I continually forced upon him.

Jeff suddenly appeared next to me (or had been there all along, but I was a tad preoccupied) and elbowed me.

“Uh oh,” he muttered, looking over to the side of the stage.  “This can’t be good.”

I looked over and once again saw Doug, who had managed to make his way back into the restricted area next to the stage ramp.  I nudged The Coworker, giving him a pleading look, as he headed over to Doug.  He grabbed Doug‘s arm and started to say something to him, but I could tell that the conversation was not one which involved any scolding.  Suddenly it seemed as though The Coworker was encouraging Doug…almost egging him on, until he turned to walk back to me.

“I don’t know about that kid,” he laughed.   No sooner had The Coworker turned his back when Doug attempted to run up the ramp and onto the stage.  Two beefy club security guards immediately jumped to action, taking Doug down in one swift movement.  As they began to escort him towards the door, he yelled over to his brother.

“Dude – get my coat!” he yelled, beaming from ear to ear.  He was obviously quite proud of what he had accomplished.  I, however, held my face in my hand, sufficiently embarrassed by Doug’s puerile behavior, as the crowd of guys standing around me laughed as he was taken out.  The Coworker sighed heavily and looked at me.

“Well, I guess that’s my cue.”

“Remind me,” I said, trying to laugh off the night, “not to go to any more shows with your brother.”  The Coworker walked away to find his deliquent brother as I worked my way to the bar to attempt to find Samantha.  Within a few minutes, I found her still hanging all over the Ken doll, barely able to stand up straight.

“Hey drunkie,” I said to Samantha.  “We’re going.  Doug got kicked out.”

“Who’s Doug?” she asked, giggling.

“Nevermind, just say goodbye to your new friend.  Jeff won’t wait all night.”


“Is she alive back there?” Jeff asked, trying to catch a glimpse of Samantha through the rear view mirror.  I looked in the back seat to see a motionless, snoring Samantha sprawled out across the bench seat.

“She’s passed out,” I said, moderately annoyed with the evening’s total breakdown into chaos.  “We should take her keys.”

We pulled into the driveway and I tucked Samantha’s keys into my glove compartment.  I was thankful to have Jeff there, as he never minded doing the sober driving as long as my car was the night’s chosen transportation.  It always seemed like a pretty good trade off to me.

I opened the back door to the car and quietly leaned in closer to Samantha.

“Wake up, peaches!” I yelled, snapping her out of a sound sleep and causing Jeff to dissolve into giggles.  After a couple of minutes of establishing her whereabouts, we went inside, and Samantha hurried to the bathroom.

“She cannot drive home,” Jeff said, concerned.

“Nah, she’ll probably just want to pass out on the couch anyway,” I hoped.  Ten minutes passed, without so much as a sound coming from the bathroom.  I knocked on the door, asking if she was okay.

I knocked again, louder.  Suddenly, a flush.  I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that she wasn’t passed out in there.

Samantha emerged from the bathroom, stumbling into the kitchen and demanding her keys.  I turned to shut off the bathroom light, and noticed that Samantha had vomited on almost every surface in my bathroom except inside the toilet.

“Um, Sam?” I asked.  “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?” she asked nonchalantly.

“Dude, you puked all over the bathroom.”

“No, I didn’t.  I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What?” I asked, dumbfounded.  Jeff stared wide-eyed, taking in the scene.  “There’s puke everywhere! Come look at this!”

Samantha ignored my request and approached Jeff.

“Where are my keys? I’m goin’ home,” Samantha slurred.

“I don’t have them,” Jeff insisted, looking at me.

“Don’t look at me,” I yelled at her.  “I’m too busy cleaning up the contents of your stomach!”

Things quickly turned ugly as Samantha drunkenly began pawing through every drawer in the kitchen, desperately looking for her keys.  Without warning, she grabbed my car keys and ran outside.

“Is she stealing my car?” I asked, running after her.  When I got outside, Samantha was looking through the glove compartment for her keys.  I grabbed her by the arm and led her back inside as Jeff retrieved her car keys.

“You are in NO position to drive home, and considering you won’t even acknowledge that you puked everywhere, I’m the LAST person you should be messing with right now!” I yelled, having reached my pain threshold with her.

When she saw that Jeff had her keys, she sweetly asked him for them.  He declined, instead offering to call her a cab, stating that we’d deliver her car in the morning.

“I swear if you don’t give them to me, I will not hesitate to kick your ass,” Samantha stated flatly, getting in Jeff’s face.  He looked at me, and exasperated, I gave up.
“Let her kill herself if she wants to,” I said, knowing she’d never make it down the driveway walking, let alone driving.

Jeff threw her the keys and Samantha stormed out of the house, furious.  We watched in the window as she stumbled down the driveway.  As she turned onto the sidewalk, she suddenly disappeared.

“Shit,” Jeff muttered.

Just as suddenly as she disappeared, Samantha appeared again, popping up from the street where she had apparently taken quite the digger.  As she struggled to even put her key in the door of her car, Jeff went outside and finally convinced her to accept the cab offer.

November 3, 2008 Posted by | No Messages - Excerpts from the Draft | , , | 1 Comment