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Confessions of a Drama Queen

By mouth{JT}

As most know by now, I am a self-confessed Drama Queen, and that’s alright by me. I live quite happily knowing I am making a mountain out of a molehill and really have no wish to change. As with all DQs, I have quite a few obsessive compulsions, and again, me and my compulsions live quite happily together. They are almost comforting in a situation because I know exactly how that situation is going to play out, and one such situation is a regular occurance for me:

Putting gas in my car.

Most people would go down to the local service station, fill ‘er up, and go, but not me. No, Siree. First of all, I calculate when I will have to go, to the day. I do not do the random, “Oh my god, I’m low on petrol; I’d better fill up here,” kinda thing. I actually pass three gas stations on my way to my gas station. There, the boys know me, and they know to fill my car for me. I don’t ever do it because I know without a shadow of a doubt I will fuck it up. Yes, I will. So I go to a station that offers “full service”. A boy comes racing out, fills my car up,and I go inside to pay.

Well. Almost.

On my designated day, I am down to a quarter of a tank and I am getting nervous. I constantly watch the guage and start to sweat slightly if I go below that quarter line. Right. A deep breath, and off I go. I get to the station, watching said quarter line on my dashboard, and turn into the street. Oh, shit, fuck, and crap – somebody’s using my pump. Damn. Don’t they know number 9 is mine? No, I don’t go to any other pump because I know how to exactly park my car for number nine, so – I wait.

I wait in the car park across the road, to be precise. I pull up and wait, watching number 9 in my rear-view mirror. “Holy shit, what is that woman doing? Why is she taking so long? For fuck’s sake,” are words I’ve uttered more than once. Oh, okay, she’s on crutches. Fair enough. But listen, Mister – do you really need to wash your work van now? Shouldn’t you be off fixing someone’s whatever instead of scoffing a pie and washing your van? Sheesh, man, hurry up! All words I have muttered in company of the dog as we wait for number 9 to become free.

Finally!

Okay, now comes the tricky bit. With the speed of a Formula One Racing Car Driver, I am out of my parking spot, across two laners of traffic. and zipped into the spot in front of number 9. (Luckily, I am good at speed but occassionally someone will beat me – fuckers – and the whole waiting process starts over again.)

Me and number 9 wait no more than a minute, minute and a half, tops, before a guy comes out with a huge smile and we exchange plesantries as he fills my car. They know me well and so never have to ask if I want it filled completely. Of course I do. I don’t want to repeat this for at least another ten days. I then race inside to pay so I am ready by the time the pump finishes and have all my guff. Maybe get milk and a lottery ticket. More pleasantries exchanged as we wait for my card to be accepted, and I have that slight nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach. Of course, I know there’s money in the account, but what if the machine breaks down? Or if I’ve smudged the electronic strip on my card? I don’t know how, but it’s possible. Probably. They would have to siphon out my gas, because I’m not doing it. You do hear stories about these things – and then- oh, phew, its been accepted. Yay.

I leave with my stuff, making sure I profusely thank the lad who did the gas, beause I am truly grateful. I jump in and off I go, secure in the knowledge that I am not going to run out of gas – this week, at least.

Like I said at the start of this article, there is a lot of comfort in knowing exactly how a situation is going to play out.

Every week.

The Need

Fiction by mouth{JT}

The apartment walls seemed to be closing in on her again, and she clenched her fists tightly, willing herself to pay closer attention to the TV. Hopefully, that would drown out the craving a little, she thought as once again her gaze slid along the table to the telephone, wishing she could call him. But no, she couldn’t – not yet. It hadn’t been very long since she had last called him, trying to keep her voice calm as she sensed his irritation at being called yet again! That time, he had specifically told her not to call until the morning, and she had murmured her apologies for disturbing him before hanging up. Watching TV to take her mind off when she could go see him. God, how she wanted him to say yes. But no, not yet. Perhaps he was teaching her some kind of lesson. She wasn’t sure.

Turning her attention back to the television, she was soon allowing her mind to wander again, lost in the thought of tomorrow. Maybe he would tell her tomorrow she could go. Her lips turned a darker shade of red and a high spot of excited color dotted both cheeks as her mind recalled every small detail of past occasions. That smell! Oh, dear Lord, that smell. There was nothing on earth quite like it, and as her thoughts drifted deeper, further, losing herself so vividly in the daydream, a small pink tongue came out to wantonly carress her bottom lip.

That smell – a heady mixture of damp and earthy, and yet somehow, still its own fragrance. It was such an intoxicating aroma. How warm her mouth felt against the cool skin as one enveloped the other in a greedy embrace. The taste at times was subtle, teasing her senses as she would try to slow down, savouring the first teasing parting of her lips on the skin – tickling the covered flesh with her tongue in feathery light touches, her own saliva making a wet trail wherever she touched with her mouth. Every sense in her body was on high alert with the anticipation of what was to come as she continued the tease of her lips, trying to hold herself back and knowing that slight moaning noise was coming from her. She just couldn’t help it. She really couldn’t.

And the taste! She could never get enough of that first taste, when she allowed her tongue to touch at that tiny hole, with the smallest amount of moisture there giving her hints and promises of things to come. That feeling that would gather in the pit of her stomach knowing she was close, so close. Even now, lost in the daydream, she could visualize everything so clearly. It had been so long since the last time – too long. A shudder rippled over her slender frame as she dwelled on tomorrow and how it would be. How it always was. Want, need, desire took over all of her senses and made her feel breathless, begging almost incoherently as she stuttered out what she wanted. Being made, in a teasing banter, to repeat herself more clearly as he pretended not to understand.

A glance at the clock told her he wouldn’t answer the phone now, anyway. He had a strict rule about answering the phone, and even though it was only a few minutes past the hour, it was – well, still past. She might as well go to bed. Sighing, that was exactly what she did.

The next day, right on the dot of nine o’clock, her hand shook as she dialled the number. She knew it by heart, and precisely on the third ring, he answered .There was a weary tone in his voice as he spoke.

“No, I’m sorry. The first cherries of the season haven’t arrived in store yet, but I’ll call the second they do.”

Confessions of a Drama Queen

By mouth{JT}
The Ramblings of A Batologist

Generally, the first words that come out of a batologist’s mouth are “Ow,” “Shit,” and “Fuck” – well, they do mine, anyway. A batologist is not, as you might think, someone who collects and studies bats, but a person who collects and studies brambles. And I do.

I pick blackberries. to be precise. It all started on my way to work. I drive past a lovely section of a river where the blackberries grow wild and free, and every year, people go there and pick them. Mostly old folks, to be accurate. They pick the fruit, then have a stall on the side of the road with a great hand-made sign saying “BLACKBERRY JAM FOR SALE: $5”, or words to that effect. Now, God forbid, I dont want to sit in my car on a stinking hot day waiting for someone to give me five bucks, but the thought of picking blackberries was kind of appealing. Reminders of my childhood as a country girl where we’d go out and pick berries, or mushrooms on a frosty day, or the forgotten apple tree and raspberry canes growing in a vacant property (country folk gather anything for free), so I thought, “Why not?”

First of all, you have to find a secret spot.Those old folks are wiley and get up real early in the morning and strip a patch bare. I kid you not, they leave nothing.

So I discovered a secret spot, and let me tell you, I kept it a closely guarded secret. I know other people that pick, who wouldn’t hestitate to nick my spot. As luck would have it, I found my spot across the road from a small railway station. It was an abandoned paintball field, no longer used or kept tidy, and the brambles had grown real high, creating a natural wall from the passing road. I could see them from the road as I drove past and it didn’t look disturbed (batologists trample a lot of the ground down to reach the “good ones”) – probably the “KEEP OUT – PRIVATE PROPERTY” had something to do with it, but no one was around. It was an abandoned field. Yes!

At dusk one night, I parked the car in the nearby railway car park and walked around the field casually. The brambles had to be ten feet high, but that wasn’t stopping me, no siree. I ambled my way around, away from prying eyes, and at the side of the field found a natural opening. A quick glance around showed no rapists or muggers watching and I ninjed my way through a tiny gap. That was my first “Ow shit fuck” of the night as brambles tore at my hair, and not the last, I might add. Note to self: Wear a beanie next time. I got my balance after a while and took a look around. Holy moly, I had found Blackberry Mecca.

Now, as every good batologist knows, two things are needed for great blackberries: Rain and sun. And the enemy of the black luscious fruit reaching optimum growth? Wind. Plain and simple, it stunts their growth. So this ten foot wall of brambles not only kept prying eyes out, but had also created a natural thick barrier against the wind. On the inside of the field, the other side of the ten foot wall, the fruit grew thick, fat, and huge. But best of all? Untouched.

I got my plastic ice cream container and started picking. But there’s always that branch just a little out of reach, a little too far in – so you strain, go up on tiptoes, and plunge your arms into the most wicked spikes around. Rose thorns? The spines of a lion fish? Pfft. They got nothing on brambles that don’t want to yield their fruit. The ground was neglected, and I was soon falling over rabbit holes and tripping over hilly tussocks of what could loosely be called grass, only thicker, deeper and longer, landing on my arse with another of many, “Ow, shit, fucks”.

Blackberry juice stains a nice deep dark purple, and soon the color was mingling with my own blood as the brambles tore into me. I got scratches over both eyes, all down my arms, and I found out later that some vicious looking brutes had even worked their way through my jeans, tearing at my thigh. But no matter! My container was filling nicely. I had to slap the mozzies away as they honed in on fresh blood, as I picked “just one more”.

When it got too dark too see, and my self imposed one container limit had been filled, I stumbled, crawled and groped my way out of the field. No jumping over bracken and brambles now – I couldn’t see them, and I got slapped in the face many times, but finally I was back at the car, triumphant, my container filled to overflowing with great big dark luscious fruit. Ha!

I would go back many many times, swearing the obligatory words over and over to my secret spot, and I would have to say overall, it was a (kind of) pleasant, calming experience.

Now – what to do with the 47 containers of blackberries stuffed in my freezer.

Jam anyone?

The Intruder

Fiction by mouth{JT}

Wearily, she let the key in the lock, thankful to be home. It had been a long, hard shift at the hospital, and all she wanted to do on this cold, windy night was to have a long hot shower, something to eat, and bed, ready for the next day’s shift. The TV was going, a trifle too loud, but she blocked out the noise and called out, “Hi, I’m home,” and got a grunt and a wave in reply. No change there, then. A quick glance into the fridge showed her some still edible leftovers, and as she waited for the microwave to ding, she glanced out of the window into the street below.

It was a rough neighborhood, there was no denying that, and the amount of boarded up shops and unkempt look the back alleys gave showed that times were hard. She shrugged. It was one of the reasons rents were so cheap around here. The wind blew trash up the street, and she watched it swirling away, catching at a hooker’s legs as she waited for a customer. It was cold, though, and hardly anyone was around this time of night. Eventually, the hooker lit a cigarette and after a quick look up and down the street, moved off in search of better pickings.

The ding of the microwave told her dinner was ready. She ate it standing up, drifting back to the window, her eyes darting glances to every doorway, then the alley and back again. It was late, and most of the shades were drawn, or the window was dark. A perfect night for peeping toms – or worse – she thought, and shuddered.

Wasn’t it nights like this that the BTK guy went out, breaking into apartments and houses to do the terrible things he did, relying on the fact no one was around to hear? She wasn’t sure, but thought so – and just a couple of months ago, two streets away, the police had caught a peeping tom, right in the act if you please, masturbating in front of some young girl’s bedroom as she got ready for bed. Not to mention Ted Bundy, the charming serial killer who broke into nurses’ rooms and murdered them. Yes, it was a perfect night for something bad to happen. Feeling sick, she turned away from the window, the meal in her stomach disgreeing with the clinical germ smell she fancied clung to her clothes after a shift at work.

The clock pinged over to exactly midnight as she moved into the lounge, muttering, “Turn that thing down. I’m off for a shower, then bed. I’ve had enough for one day.” A double shift at work had made her tired and cranky, and she was in no mood to be woken by screaming from the TV. Her nerves were shot enough as it was.

Her roommate turned her head and grinned, pointing to the TV. “A shower, huh? Better watch out!” The shower scene from the movie “Psycho” was showing, hence the screaming. She mustered a very flat, “Ha, ha, very funny,” and left the room, going into the small bathroom and turning the shower on full.

As she waited for it to heat up, she gathered her night things, turned the electric blanket on, and went back, haphazardly stripping off her dirty uniform. Soon, her underthings followed and she stepped into the scalding hot shower, trying hard to block out the unpleasant noises coming from the TV. God, but the water felt good as it streamed down her back, pushing the aches and pains of the day away, her hands flat against the wall, safely ensconced by the shower curtain. Soaping up her wet hair, she looked up, and suddenly froze.

She wasn’t alone.

Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen something – just a very slight movement, but her sixth sense told her she had company. Her stomach churned. God, what to do now? Had she left the window open? She couldn’t be sure. Why hadn’t she checked? Should she call out? No, that damn TV would drown out her calls for help. The water poured down her body unheeded as she tried to think what to do, what to do, but her mind was blank.

There! The shadow wavered. She knew now she wasn’t alone, was certain of it. Perhaps it was just a draught, her logic kicked in, but that feeling would not go away, no matter how hard she tried. What the hell was going to happen now? A wave of complete terror washed over her as she waited, knowing it was coming. The half digested meal in her stomach was threatening to come up, and all thoughts of tiredness were now gone. She had to protect herself. But how? With what? There was nothing to help her but rows of beauty products adorning the shelf. God forbid, was she going to be found naked and dead in the shower by morning, the water running cold over her nude body? Janet Leigh’s screams coming from the TV weren’t helping any, and her nerves shifted into high gear.

Again, a slight shift in the shower cutain indicated the presence of another, and keeping her eyes firmly on the spot, she reached out, groping blindly for a towel, feeling the security of the warm material as she glided it around herself.

As the cutain shifted again, she couldn’t stand it any more. If she was going to be attacked, she would at least try and make a run for it first. Gathering up her courage, her hand crept towards the curtain before taking a deep breath and sweeping it back, at the same time screaming, “AAAARRRGGGHHHHH!” and diving for the door. Her room mate looked up in surprise as she burst dripping wet into the lounge, barely covered by the towel.

“I thought you said you got rid of that fucking spider yesterday!”