When I was younger there were two books I closely associated myself with. One of them was one of those Beverly Cleary Ramona books, and the other was Harriet the Spy. The latter mattered to me for one reason. It approved my habit of lying. One of the conclusive lines in the book said something like "Sometimes, you have to lie." As a child, I swore by the book. Sometimes you have to lie, and the book gave me the permission. The former, the Ramona book, described Ramona as a rather rambunctious individual. She, at one moment in the story, takes an entire tube of toothpaste and squeezes it into the sink. All the contents of that brand new shiny tube- gone.
Although I've arrived at a point in my life where I no longer find the desire to read books like that...yes I've moved on to a more mature form of literature...I find those instances recalled now more than ever before.
Sometimes, when I'm in a parking lot in my car, I imagine putting the car into drive instead of reverse. My imagination depicts a totaled car, that in front of me, and my own. A smile spreads across my face, and I put the car into reverse. I could get hurt, the insurance will go up, I'd need a new car, blah, blah, adulting is hard.
I started buying Arm and Hammer toothpaste because I saw someone with really white teeth claim they use it. By the second week of its ingredients mintifying the fuck out of my mouth, I wanted to squeeze the entire contents out into the sink. I wanted to Ramonafy the tube. I wanted to slap it across the porcelain sink. Fucking false advertising piece of fluoride. I snapped back into reality. Toothpaste costs five bucks. I should save.
A few months ago, during the winter, an unsavory resident of my neighborhood went full Nazi soldier on me. Him and his wife were observing the street through their front window only to find me nonchalantly allowing my dog to relieve his dinner into their front lawn. I thought I could get away with the action for three reasons. One, dog poop is a fertilizer, who really cares? Two, it was midnight. Three, there were three inches of snow on the ground. But Mr. Dog Hater would have none of my reasons. He ordered me to come back with a doggie bag. And I did. A week ago I had a doggie bag filled with my dog's business. As we approached Mr. Dog Hater's house, I thought of how funny it would be to place the bag on his front step, open and smelly. He would walk outside and step right into it, hopefully wearing a rather expensive pair of shoes. He wouldn't be able to go golfing now, he'd have to walk back inside, clean the shit up, and throw the bag away. And I'd be there laughing my ass off. But then I figured I'd get arrested. So I walked home.
I have a rage addiction. Adulting--being arrested--paying a fine--losing money--whatever you'd like to call it, prevents my addiction from becoming an addiction. My imagination is so entirely satisfying I'm afraid I don't belong in the real world. So, last night, I used the restroom in a bar. I took a toilet paper roll out of its fixture (which by the way never fucking allows toilet paper to come out in a satisfying way), and I let it roll. From my stall, I pushed the roll throughout the next three stalls. And then I walked out.
So to whoever had to clean that up, I'm sorry, I have to get my fix somewhere.
I like to write; point blank. This is a little piece of me that I get to share with the rest of the world, and hey, you know, maybe you'll appreciate it, maybe it'll do nothing for you. But my writing exists, and that's enough for me.
© 2019 Silvia Iorio. All rights reserved.