Naked in the (Emerald?) City

Margaux F. Castaway.

TAKE ONE – as interpreted in the world of Margaux F. Castaway

I am only half naked, at the computer. I like to say the made up word “nakin.” Mornings that I have to work have never been my favorite. My jeans are faded, unbuttoned, hanging off of my moneymaker, coin slot exposed. I guess we have something in common. I am referring to my jeans…I am wearing my lucky hat, I seem to write better this way. I hate second dates even more than first ones. I hope I never have to go on one again. Be my fan! Organize a fan club, Buy our t-shirts! Send me a monetary present through PayPal. I clearly need one. I hate my neighbor. I am a lac-tard. My birthday was yesterday. I am an alcoholic. Some of this is true. Is it arrogant to think that you owe me something? Not really. How can I help you make our relationship work? Does your head hurt yet?

I’m whimsical! I ate fake bacon for breakfast. Things are really weird and stuff. Take an aspirin, if necessary. I loved you from the start. I haven’t had enough coffee, sadly. Forgive me as you most minimally delete my ranting… Open your heart, you silly whore! You don’t know how hard it was… I am so scared of snakes and monsters, which almost brings me to why I am writing this.

NYPress, where do you find these people? Naked Circus, where did you find me? (Please don’t answer that.) Weird doesn’t even begin to describe that town–Anyway, I read the Flavor of the Weak: THE PENIS SHOW sex column. I was left feeling at a complete loss. The author, what is that drunken slut’s name? whatever, TRISH BENTLEY, clearly needs to be taken under a professional’s wing since she clearly only knows how to get caught in someone’s zipper! Apparently, she is a 29 y/o woman, writing of her experience in the world of “Downtown Dating.” She got high on a pop culture memoir, was expecting something more than a “crazy penis” but I have to tell you, girl, the penis is NOT the crazy one.

The column starts with little TRISH-y reminiscing of a date that happened four years ago, which makes one wonder why she is still thinking about this experience? She then goes on to describe a date she had with a guy who looked like a hockey player, named Chuck. His name was CHUCK! and she met him at a dog run. What kind of idiot–nevermind, we will get to that.

She stated that she was out for an “ego boost” to “fill up the space” which makes me wonder if she is talking about the obvious one between her ears or the darkened cavern between her legs?

Then I wonder how many hockey players are named “Chuck”? How would “tell me, Elizabeth, how exactly does one suck a fuck?” from the popular Donnie Darko would have sounded with Chuck’s name substituted? Too much time on my hands, I guess.

Oh yes, she further goes one to state that she was looking for a “distraction” or a “catalyst” to help her stop “banging her head against the wall,” which seems like an interesting way to attract a potential I-don’t-know-what. She was not looking for her “future baby daddy,” but instead, someone to grab a “flirty” drink with, which sounds absolutely nauseating.

Aside from the fact that I can’t even fathom what that means, she goes to two bars with this guy, wondering why his behavior got “bizarre,” as if drunkenness was something foreign to her. By this point, I pretty much wanted to strangle this woman.

Then she goes on to say she was “not turned on in the least,” when he returned with her Corona, as if that is a bodily response when beer arrives. She wanted a “good story to tell her friends”–She needs to go to AA already.

So “Chuck” wants to show her his tattoo, which was on his upper thigh, his “scary” penis flops out and Trish thinks it is staring intently at her, which creeps me out but I, unfortunately, kept reading…She ends dismissing this guy as not being the “prospect of normalcy” that she had so OBVIOUSLY been “searching for,” at the dog park and all–a welcome break from the confines of a shared 400-square-foot apartment that she stayed at with a friend. Better luck next time, loser.

If this woman stopped couch surfing, maybe she could try a cat, a nice friend, find a different means of filling up the gaping void, because well, most men have an anaconda–sometimes in the egg development stage, but a snake nonetheless–and they most likely want to show it to someone. Welcome to the planet.

I won’t even entertain you with what I would have done on this date at this point.

Kisses-
M.F. Castaway