All the Horrible Girliness

This morning, a woman walked into the Den and ordered coffee at the counter. On the way there, she dropped something. When she bent, I saw her entire red string thong jut up out of her jeans. This all happened over Mister Aran's shoulder.

"Oh man," I said, "That chick's thong just busted hella out of her jeans." I watched her at the counter. Mister Aran was already moving on, and that couldn't be. I needed her to bend over again so he could see it, and share in the... whatever of it. The whatever is difficult to explain. She was older; maybe that was it. Her clothes were unkempt and ill-fitting. Her hair, pulled back into partial pig-tails, was dyed blonde and red. She had to be at least forty, and her look was far too young. The thong was the crux of it.

"You dropped that," said the server, pointing at a receipt on the ground next to Thong Lady.

"Oh god yes! Watch, watch!" I muscled Mister Aran into a sideways sitting position. The woman took her time tucking change into her wallet, but before she left, she bent for the receipt, and Mister Aran saw it. We shared a celebratory high-five. Carlo now calls it a London Bridge. Thanks, Fergie, for educating my husband on the finer points of multi-person sex. I digress.

I was joyful. Triumphant. I had made a wish, and Jesus had made it so. Then a frightening reality knocked me back: Jesus was listening... then? Right then? What if that was my only chance at an audience with the Almighty, and that's the wish he happened to hear?

One day, The Bug will live under a bridge, sad, diseased and alone, and I will know it's because I fucked up my one damn Jesus wish for a half-second shot at a woman's red thong.

posted by Samus @ 12:16 PM