I am sitting at Scooters Inc., watching beautiful, bustling downtown Carrboro unfurl its state-sanctioned tentacles of political efficacy in the form of Tween Children for Obama. I don’t know if they are actually tweens, but they look so small and young. The older I get, the worse I become at judging age.
Speaking of Obama, did I tell you about the crackhead who came to visit us the other night? I don’t think you were over there. . .it was 4 a.m. and we were all playing Rock Band and in the middle of a B-52s song this dude rolls up in the house sounding like he had a dick in his mouth, telling my roommate he “Need ta speak wit ‘im outside.” I was like, “Why the fuck for? Go home.” And the crackhead threw his hands in the air and in a defeated yet urgent voice, he cried, “But I. . .I. . .I work fo’ de OBAma campaign!!”
Anyway, so. I don’t know what you’re up to at the moment, I’m sure you’re still at work. I really hope I’ll be able to come in soon and get my background done. . .I don’t really want a full sleeve, just a half-sleeve to bring it all together. It’ll be good practice for you anyway, since you’re still apprenticing. When I got the fly tattoo on my chest, my roommate had a stroke. He was completely beside himself. Completely terrified of it. He protested relentlessly, saying things like, “Now NO ONE will date you except for maybe tattoo artists and blind people!! Who gets a BUG tattooed on her tit? Jesus Christ you’ve outdone yourself.”
Well, first of all, it’s not my tit. It’s my upper chest/collarbone. And I started talking to you a week later. And you’re not blind, are you?
The scooter store is making me very sad. It rained all day so we had to bring the bikes in. I’m looking at this Vespa we have, and I know it’s the one you want, but to tell you the truth I sort of covet it. I didn’t want to admit that to you for fear that we’d end up riding the same scooter around. That would be plain old embarrassing. That’s worse than matching your clothes. Owning identical Vespas is like the ultimate hipster Sadie Hawkins.
But I’m sad because the shop is a complete mess and it’s my responsibility to clean it up. I know I have to do it, adn I know I’ll feel better about it afterwards, but seriously. There are band flyers, backorder helmet boxes, 500 CD-Rs, gum wrappers, finance brochures, broken sunglasses, Corazzo pamphlets, dirty rags, love letters from the welder-guy at our other shop in Durham (don’t be mad, he’s married and just joking), Mio magnets, half-empty gallons of water, and the list goes on. I am overwhelmed. I am thirsty. And my skirt is impossibly short and it makes me uncomfortable. And my thumb is bleeding. It will not stop. And all I have to sop up the carnage with is a Wendy’s napkin covered in my roommate’s snot. It’s laying on the desk from the last time he was working here.
So hurry up and break down all those tattoo stations and check tomorrow’s appointments for ugly tribal designs and sorority girl nose piercings and get the hell outta Durham and come have dinner with me. Because if you’re not here to not mind the fly on my tit and the blood running off my thumb, then who else is there?
Thanks a bunch, love,