grey

i need a washcloth for my face. a dark rose colored one like the ones my mom used to put on my head when i got sick during the night. i need a big stick of rejuvinate to rub on my skin. when i was little and i had coloring books i liked to pretend like what i was coloring wasn't alive until i had fully filled it in. arms and legs and torsos and cheeks. somebody come at me with a crayon.

i'm sick and bleh. achy and sneezy and not even day quil can help me now. two and a half more hours at the store and all i want to do is lie down on the floor behind the register, close my eyes, and imagine my pillow and my comfortor twisted over and under and between my legs. mmm...sleep. so the smart thing would be to not go out tonight. eh, i'll see what i can do.

it was grey and misty rainy today, like the kind where when you sit out in it you're not sure if the moisure is rain or air. until you open your eyes wide up into it and you feel something slightly definite. it was okay sitting outside but customers kept coming in.

no, i'm not thinking about him.

a regular just came in and scolded me. "take out those rings in your lips. it looks terrible!" and i sneered, while trying not to sneer, "i like them." he then proceeded to rent three movies and TELL me it would be okay if he was a day or two late with one of them if he returned the other two on time. "that'd be fine, but you're paying the late fee."

people.
argh.


the thing
about this store
is that some people are so full of their secret fetishes that they will absolutely burst if they don't discuss them with someone. and, sadly, i'm the perfect someone. there's a butch-looking redneck guy three feet away from me right now, staring at the naked playing cards taped to the front of the register stand commenting on the cocks. he's saying that he better stop looking before he gets too excited. "i just love getting all high and tore up and then getting gang banged." last month babbled for hours about his appreciation for black men. tonight he's telling me what happened that night at the club i sent him to.
it gets ridiculous, like the stutterer who calls me more than once a week to ask me if it's bad that he likes to masturbate and if he's gay because his dominatrix has another man shave him. and the guy who calls once a month and asks me to describe all of the magazines we carry and then asks what kind of pretty clothes we have that he can masturbate in. and, of course, the guy who's been emailing me for forever--apparently my correspondence has turned a young, attractive, conservative husband into a sub named veronica who masturbates in front of a mirror wearing a vinyl dress and smoking, fantasizing about being raped by a man.

how'd i get on this subject? aah, this store is taking over my brain. i'm going to go smoke a cigarette and try to clear it out. maybe i'll slip on a vinyl dress first...