While I think most people would prefer not to go half a decade without talking to former friends or acquaintances, it's nice to know sometimes that you can pick right back up with them where you left off.
Whereas people less comfortable with you or with themselves might dance around the "did you become physically bloated in our time apart" issue; whereas a lesser personality might restrict herself to talk of children and spouses; whereas an especially solicitous individual might, in seeking to pay a disarming and non-committal compliment (e.g. "I hope that [washboard stomach, nice hair, enormous ass] of yours held up over the years"), try make you feel still capable of physically bringing it, it's good to know that there are some friends out there with the poise and composure to skip all that polite bullshit.
Some people need only wait until the twelfth line of exchange to cut right to the chase: you have sex with birds. And some people, in fact, couldn't begin to give a damn about the big, flappy bastards.
Me: It was pretty fantastic. I've done this for a few years now, so I wasn't terribly worried about it.
Katie A.: because i didn't know about turkey brining, i thought you were having Thanksgiving 2 days early. "Man, he gets into it."
Me: Ahaha
Me: ffffffff
Me: ok, gimme a minute here
Me: Sorry, that just conjured a series of really hilarious images.
Katie A.: such as?
Me: I saw myself holding two-foot-long tined spears and snatching slices from the middle of a massive table and bringing them to my plate, resting on an engorged stomach. I also thought about myself opening a Thanksgiving Advent Calendar, pulling back the enormous paper door, withdrawing a barbecue-sauced turkey leg.
Katie A.: grunts of approval, the scent of root vegetables wafting from behind the meat pile, which dwarfs every person and dish at the table
Me: Hours later, a slow waltz through the living room with the turkey carcass, my hands lovingly cradling the legs. Strauss.
Katie A.: You offer it a glass of fine port, it refuses. Instead you pour the port ON it. Things get erotic very quickly after that.
Me: A daydreaming necro-bestial butcher's vision of "bone-in breast" ensues.
Katie A.: You're bitter at having to hide all this from the world, and allow your eccentricities to manifest themselves through nervous tics and stutters
Katie A.: You haven't looked anyone in the eye since 1990
Me: I deliberately gained weight so that, when someone called me "Butterball," I would become aroused in public.
Me: I have filled a bottle of Astroglide with gravy.
Katie A.: At board meetings (you're wealthy, of course — work is sublimation for you) your doodle is inevitably the same: a tracing of your hand with flourishes at the thumb: a turkey that anamorphs into your own silhouette
Me: I have written no less than a score of anonymous disquisitions on internet message boards castigating the short-sighted and insertion-based use of basters in pornography. I have demanded that "stuffing" become a more broadly understood sexual gerund.
Me: When people sarcastically tell me, "Whoa, I don't mean to ruffle your feathers," I become incandescent with a rage that I can never explain.
Katie A.: You complained once to a Dominican grocery store owner that the yearly display of Thanksgiving foods "just cheapens it... CHEAPENS!"
Katie A.: You spend this three-weak window wearing a trench coat and circling endcaps. In a cold sweat.
Katie A.: You offer it a glass of fine port, it refuses. Instead you pour the port ON it. Things get erotic very quickly after that.
Me: A daydreaming necro-bestial butcher's vision of "bone-in breast" ensues.
Katie A.: You're bitter at having to hide all this from the world, and allow your eccentricities to manifest themselves through nervous tics and stutters
Katie A.: You haven't looked anyone in the eye since 1990
Me: I deliberately gained weight so that, when someone called me "Butterball," I would become aroused in public.
Me: I have filled a bottle of Astroglide with gravy.
Katie A.: At board meetings (you're wealthy, of course — work is sublimation for you) your doodle is inevitably the same: a tracing of your hand with flourishes at the thumb: a turkey that anamorphs into your own silhouette
Me: I have written no less than a score of anonymous disquisitions on internet message boards castigating the short-sighted and insertion-based use of basters in pornography. I have demanded that "stuffing" become a more broadly understood sexual gerund.
Me: When people sarcastically tell me, "Whoa, I don't mean to ruffle your feathers," I become incandescent with a rage that I can never explain.
Katie A.: You complained once to a Dominican grocery store owner that the yearly display of Thanksgiving foods "just cheapens it... CHEAPENS!"
Katie A.: You spend this three-weak window wearing a trench coat and circling endcaps. In a cold sweat.
Katie A.: This explains so much about you
Katie A.: and is an excellent argument for your area's cultural poverty.
Katie A.: and is an excellent argument for your area's cultural poverty.
Me: Once, while in a bar, I heaved a bottle through the TV screen when it showed the Jackass episode where they bowled with roasters. I stammered, "Take it, just take it all" and threw all the cash in my wallet at the bartender before running out with tears streaming down my face.
Katie A.: that same evening, you used the fact that it's impossible to spell the sound that the domestic turkey really makes as an argument for the incommensurability of language with action.
Me: I have a tramp stamp that's just a proportionally anatomically correct cloaca.
Katie A.: You're the president of a fringe movement to restore the wild turkey as the national bird of the United States
Me: Every time I get drunk, I stand in front of the mirror, pull my throat wattle down and dance while moving it back and forth. Then I say, "I'd fuck me," and lament that I'm not yet old.
Me: Late at night I watch Jeffersons reruns and feel a yearning for an ebon bird of grace and power every time they say "Jive Turkey."
Katie A.: Your ringtone is that Adam Sandler thanksgiving song. You have a permanent vibe/ring setting so that your upper thigh is stimulated every time Sandler croons "turkey for thanksgiviiiiiiing..."
Me: I mastered touch-typing at the age of ten but returned to hunt-and-peck as I reached sexual maturity.
Katie A.: Your walk-in closet is a mock pen with cracked corn scattered along the carpet. You rub your cheek in the mess, disregarding your vinyl wool-analog allergy and risking facial hives
Me: The only time I ever watched "Vernon, Fl." saw me seven hours later pulling into the town looking for THAT GUY to claw his face off.
Katie A.: why'd you stick around [your area]?
Katie A.: (besides the appeal of remaining in a community where your secret is tolerated as an adorable eccentricity)
Me: I spent a lot of time in Northern California and want to move back there, but I can't afford to, really. Until then...
Katie A.: I see. [San Francisco], the generative origins of your perversion
Me: Yes.
Katie A.: I know about the Thanksgiving bars there
Me: Well, The Right tried to warn you. First gay marriage. Next human-animal marriage.
Me: Also, hybrids.
Katie A.: White guys with Asian boys in collars, feathers Tacky Glued to bald heads. Yep.
Katie A.: that same evening, you used the fact that it's impossible to spell the sound that the domestic turkey really makes as an argument for the incommensurability of language with action.
Me: I have a tramp stamp that's just a proportionally anatomically correct cloaca.
Katie A.: You're the president of a fringe movement to restore the wild turkey as the national bird of the United States
Me: Every time I get drunk, I stand in front of the mirror, pull my throat wattle down and dance while moving it back and forth. Then I say, "I'd fuck me," and lament that I'm not yet old.
Me: Late at night I watch Jeffersons reruns and feel a yearning for an ebon bird of grace and power every time they say "Jive Turkey."
Katie A.: Your ringtone is that Adam Sandler thanksgiving song. You have a permanent vibe/ring setting so that your upper thigh is stimulated every time Sandler croons "turkey for thanksgiviiiiiiing..."Me: I mastered touch-typing at the age of ten but returned to hunt-and-peck as I reached sexual maturity.
Katie A.: Your walk-in closet is a mock pen with cracked corn scattered along the carpet. You rub your cheek in the mess, disregarding your vinyl wool-analog allergy and risking facial hives
Me: The only time I ever watched "Vernon, Fl." saw me seven hours later pulling into the town looking for THAT GUY to claw his face off.
Katie A.: why'd you stick around [your area]?
Katie A.: (besides the appeal of remaining in a community where your secret is tolerated as an adorable eccentricity)
Me: I spent a lot of time in Northern California and want to move back there, but I can't afford to, really. Until then...
Katie A.: I see. [San Francisco], the generative origins of your perversion
Me: Yes.
Katie A.: I know about the Thanksgiving bars there
Me: Well, The Right tried to warn you. First gay marriage. Next human-animal marriage.
Me: Also, hybrids.
Katie A.: White guys with Asian boys in collars, feathers Tacky Glued to bald heads. Yep.
