stretchy pants and the monster.
After bicycling 30 miles at the Choctaw land run bike ride, amy and I stopped at Harley’s Cafe to grab some lunch and caffeine.
i’d opted to wait until i found a proper bathroom to change out of my cycling clothes— an ensemble that i’m extremely self-conscious about, particularly when not straddling a bicycle, and almost unbearably so when walking into a busy harley-davidson themed cafe in a small town. so when i caught the girl at the next table snickering i tried to brace myself for the anxiety attack— the inescapable voice in my head, the one that mocks me relentlessly and insists that i focus on the smirks and inaudible whispers, the me that won’t leave me alone.
but it didn’t come. or maybe it did, but it was completely overwhelmed and drowned out by something else— a different voice, the voice of primal, unapologetic, rabid spite:
go fuck yourself you stupid fat fucking whore. you’re going to die of gravy poisoning within 10 miles of this fucking diner even if i don’t bash in your skull right here and now. so you go right ahead. laugh it up. nobody gives a fuck.
it’s difficult to convey the venom, the gnashing, spitting force, tone, and ugliness of that voice, sitting here, now, a few hours later. even if i could conjure and transcribe it, i’d be unwilling to repeat most of the things it had to say.
but thank you, gigantic, vile, depraved, monster voice, for crushing mocking voice’s larynx and shouting down that woman’s smirk, just this once.
and snickering girl? don’t take him too seriously. and he’s not really going to kill you. i don’t really hate you.
3 years ago • Notes