monkey business
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
I didn't give it much thought when the burning ember end of the cigarette met the side of my arm. I turned to activate my evil eye and piercing glare only to get a half-hearted apology. Then again, it's not to say I was expecting an apology at all. Although, if he didn't even mutter his poor excuse for an apology, I must say that would've given me a good reason to take his cigarette, extinguish it in his drink and saunter away... after I tell the girl he's picking up he secretly loves wearing garter belts and fishnet stockings.
But I digress. What's a little burnt flesh amidst the dense fog of smoke, alcohol and sweat really? Besides, it was a small red patch. I wasn't going to spoil my night by morphing into super-bitch mode to flay the pride out of some unimportant male who was too irresponsible to watch where he was waving whatever he was smoking.
At that point in time, the only thing that did tick me off was the fact that the damn place (Poppy) was almost as comfortable as weaving through a compressed pack of sweaty hounds with their tongues hanging loose trying to outdo each other's saliva puddle capacity. In essence, it was quite a pain to move two feet without having the side of your arms graze some other individual's damp, sweaty skin (or in the guys' case, a whole back of sweat, ick).
However, my opinion has vastly changed. I woke up Monday morning and to my horror, the innocent red patch had grown into a flower bed of blisters, with an outstandingly sore and broken one smack in the middle.
No, I've never been burnt by a cigarette before.
How was I supposed to know it was going to break out in mutilated blisters?
To that asswipe who was too busy picking up some girl at the bar to realize that he shouldn't be waving that piece of shit around in a very, CROWDED club:
I'm sorry that I never got the chance to personally -accidentally- wedge my three inch heels into your parts where the sun doesn't and probably will never shine. I hope you went home alone and that the burning end of the cigarette you were smoking gets jammed up your asshole. Oh yes, go fuck yourself and die of lung cancer should you burn another girl's arm ever again.
I didn't give it much thought when the burning ember end of the cigarette met the side of my arm. I turned to activate my evil eye and piercing glare only to get a half-hearted apology. Then again, it's not to say I was expecting an apology at all. Although, if he didn't even mutter his poor excuse for an apology, I must say that would've given me a good reason to take his cigarette, extinguish it in his drink and saunter away... after I tell the girl he's picking up he secretly loves wearing garter belts and fishnet stockings.
But I digress. What's a little burnt flesh amidst the dense fog of smoke, alcohol and sweat really? Besides, it was a small red patch. I wasn't going to spoil my night by morphing into super-bitch mode to flay the pride out of some unimportant male who was too irresponsible to watch where he was waving whatever he was smoking.
At that point in time, the only thing that did tick me off was the fact that the damn place (Poppy) was almost as comfortable as weaving through a compressed pack of sweaty hounds with their tongues hanging loose trying to outdo each other's saliva puddle capacity. In essence, it was quite a pain to move two feet without having the side of your arms graze some other individual's damp, sweaty skin (or in the guys' case, a whole back of sweat, ick).
However, my opinion has vastly changed. I woke up Monday morning and to my horror, the innocent red patch had grown into a flower bed of blisters, with an outstandingly sore and broken one smack in the middle.
No, I've never been burnt by a cigarette before.
How was I supposed to know it was going to break out in mutilated blisters?
To that asswipe who was too busy picking up some girl at the bar to realize that he shouldn't be waving that piece of shit around in a very, CROWDED club:
I'm sorry that I never got the chance to personally -accidentally- wedge my three inch heels into your parts where the sun doesn't and probably will never shine. I hope you went home alone and that the burning end of the cigarette you were smoking gets jammed up your asshole. Oh yes, go fuck yourself and die of lung cancer should you burn another girl's arm ever again.
[ soon-to-be useful ]
previously on nekomatta.com
timeless bitchings
nekomatta is...
Sean Sean Tan;
sarcastic wordsmith, dirty in oh-so-many ways, fun-loving IE-hating CSS worshiping markup "engineer", anime-styled arm flailing expressive communicator, proudly self-initiated member of the cult of milk and caffeine, snotty pink crayon lover, tree hugging hippy organic designer, pole dancer wannabe, swing-a-ling lindy hopper, rabid arcane mage/bitchin' disc priest/annoying resto druid--sometimes spazzy, often giggly, always loud.
20% sugar, 80% kink.
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