Wednesday, January 11, 2012

The Writer, the Twelve-year-old Trumpet Player, and the Rude Aussie.

About twenty minutes ago, I went downstairs to the reading lounge in my building to get away from the yo-yo playing, baby-screaming, "I wanna watch Winnie the Pooh!" string bean flying, dinner-time insanity.

As I entered my soon-to-be word-crafting haven of my evening, I was greeted by a cute, spunky girl with shoulder-length hair. Okay, it's nice to have company, a study partner, I thought. Until I heard what she was studying—she pulled out a God damn trumpet. "I hope you don't mind," she said. "It's gonna be really loud." God bless head phones and the Pink Floyd's. Comfortably Numb.

She just left a moment ago as I'm writing this post. "Aw, silence at last." Not quite. In walks Crocodile Dundee and heads towards the couch and the big flatscreen. "I'm gonna watch a little teley," he says brushing by me, as if he acknowledges me studying, and that he will try and keep it down. So i say, "Yeah, I'm okay." Then he says, "Yeah, you will be."

 Yeah, I will be? Is he serious? I would've said something to him but he probably would've killed me.
 Well, as you can see, he's sitting in front of me. That's him, stringy grey mop, ugly boots on the arms of the old pleather couch.

All he had to do was ask if it was okay to blast his soccer game, be a little polite, like trumpet girl. But now, he has no idea who he's pissed off—a writer. Oh, my friends, the pen is mightier than the sword tonight.

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