Women Love a Hairy Back

Oh how I long to be seen as a man, 

and be protected from an excruciating and intense summer tan.

I could jog down the street with sweat glistening from each strand, 

and see women turned on, all over the land.

They would tell me they love it, I swear that's true,

while they pull me on top and run their fingers through.

No man would guard me in a game of Shirts and Skins, 

even though ladies would say that my body's a ten.

Ahh, but unfortunately it is an area that I forever will lack,

and I must go on living while knowing, that women love a big hairy back. 

First of all, I think that I should let my readers know that I fully understand that 99% of women do NOT like hairy backs. That being said, I take great pride in my entry this week and believe that the mere use of the word "Hairy" in the title automatically arouses discomfort in the reader (Title). I do not dance around the topic until the end or attempt to hide it in metaphor. I want readers to know from the onset that I yearn for a hairy back. Through such a forthright tone, I believe I demand a high level of unease and even nausea in the reader, just with the title. Now, although hair consists of dead proteins, I know many high schoolers who will throw out an entire school lunch if they find even one small hair (Myself included). Therefore, hair has rapidly become a touchy and almost dirty subject in our society today. Secondly, I believe my sexual reference works in an essential way in the post to force sexual, as well as hygienic discomfort upon the reader. The diction in the statements "pull me" and "run their fingers" work to imply that the woman would pull me in by the back hair which just seems to absurd for the average human (6). Finally, I believe my apparent self-contempt serves as the most effective aspect of my piece. I desired that the reader not blow me off as a sarcastic speaker, therefore I defaced myself as not being a "man" (1). The embarrassed diction in "I forever will lack" derives pathos for myself and yields sympathy from those whom must shave their back. My obvious loathing for my hairless body allows the reader to question my sanity, which makes the piece all the more uncomfortable, because who would ever crave a hirsute back?

Turtlenecks and Camouflage Cargos

Dear Lil Buddy,

          Don't touch them. Six months from now on the night before school, August 20, 2006, you will find a pack of Camel Light Cigarettes. Don't touch them. I did. Please don't. I was young, foolish, insecure, and wearing my solid red turtleneck with camo cargo shorts. I really do not know why I did. I guess I wanted people to think of me as the coolest kid around, but that never really came to fruition. Anyway, I found the pack lying in the street near my house and pulled out a cigarette. You'll have a box of matches in your front right pocket by the way, thus I lit the cigarette and inhaled, smoke immediately filled my lungs. While the breath sent me retching in the gutter, I discovered a certain freedom in the thing, and before I knew it I had smoked the whole pack!! Now you may not be aware, but smoking a whole pack of cigarettes in an hour for anyone is difficult, but for an 11 year old? Forget about it. Although, I spent the next week sick in bed in my camo pajamas, I could not shake the feeling from my mind. I had the tick, I felt the addiction. Now Buddy, I'm not proud of what I did, or what you may soon do, (unless you heed my advice!!) but let me assure you that I assumed the role of the best deviant in town to get my fix. I stole, killed, swapped, pegged, begged, tricked, swindled, conned, hoodwinked, and bamboozled. And I could do it with the best of 'em. However, soon my turtlenecks and camo shorts sported burn marks and searching for my next quick fix consumed my free time. August 20, 2012. The night before my senior year. As I got ready for bed, bumming a cig and brushing my teeth, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Shaggy hair, a gaunt face, sallow skin, and teeth that nearly looked black, I did not like the person whom stared back at me. That moment I decided to quit. Needless to say I succeeded, yet the path proved long and difficult, and every morning I awake craving a cigarette. Buddy I'm telling you, don't touch them! I truly regret the day I ignited that first cigarette. I think most of the school already envies us for our daily outfit of a turtleneck and camouflage cargo shorts, (I had countless turtlenecks and three pairs of the shorts so I could still wear them when my mother washed them) so we do not need to start smoking! Man, if you want to keep wearing that outfit, the ladies do not dig it but I didn't realize that until later, go for it. But the smoking? I'm begging you to never touch that first pack. Otherwise, you will endure the same path to delinquency and rehabilitation I had to. It's a dark, lonely road.

                                                               Sincerely,
                                                                        The Most Interesting Man in the World

P.S. When you have that crush on Megan Stricker towards the end of 5th grade... Don't. Or else, Brad might not date her because she will fall for you and your daily turtleneck and camouflage shorts.

Thump. Thump.

My body degrades, slowly. I can feel something inside my chest pounding. My heart beat faster in my infancy, however, now it toils laboriously as though each beat requires tremendous effort. Thump. Thump. It seems to count each tick, tallying them on my anterior coronary artery. Every so often I will count out 50, maybe 100 just to marvel at how quickly the time passes. I know that mine has a specific number, all of our heart’s do. Yet, the bible commands us to “not be anxious about tomorrow” so I try to convince myself not to despair (Matthew 6:34). Therefore, I force myself not to focus on the inevitable countdown occurring within my chest.

Time never stops. Likewise, humans cannot manipulate or alter time, for it keeps on keeping on with utter disregard for the misery or ecstasy it causes. Time has a countdown for every event, moment, and happening. The second-hand will eventually approach every occurrence and will not halt, or pause, one second prior to the onset but rather continue it’s accumulation of beats with blissful ignorance. The second hand, unlike that of the minute or hour, controls time. Yes, I do see the second hand as a literal needle that powers a clock, but I view it as something much more significant than merely that. It acts as the ultimate countdown tool. Each moment marks the end and start of a new countdown to a new event, we use seconds as the mechanism to measure these moments.

Yet how can we not question the legitimacy of the second hand? Honestly, the instances it counts down to appear extraordinarily trivial when in comparison to the absolute end of our existence. Thump. Thump. Once again, I can feel my heart violently throbbing in my chest. It marks the countdown to the end. Our demise. Our heart, ladies and gentlemen, serves as the unequivocal second-hand.

Where Am I?

I open the door with such force that it knocks out the ignorant woman, yapping on her cell phone and chomping on three sticks of gum, who walks behind me. Now inside, I find myself at the back of the line. As usual, the first target falls easily. The second, as simply as the first. After the third I felt a sense of discomfort as he fell with a little too much ease. Did they set me up? How could they know I would come? Well, I suppose the fact that I venture in 3-5 times per week could count as a hint but nevertheless, they had me perturbed. As I bided my time behind the fourth, I planned my assault. The options appeared endless, yet I decided on demanding many things and if they could not deliver, I would hit them where it hurts. 

"What will it be sir?" - Male #1.

"The works." - Me.

"Excuse me?" - Male #1.

I just stood there and stared directly into his small, dilated, shiny, despairing pupils. Quickly, I glanced down at my wallet, jerked my head at it, and then returned my gaze at the man. He understands. Pulling out the goods from under a shelf he begins to prepare them. Nervously, the man continues glancing in the direction of my wallet as though it has it's own life force. 

"You know we don't accept those." - Male #1.

"You'll shut your mouth if you know what's good for you, you pumpkin pie hair-cutted freak!" - Me.

"Sir..." - Male #1.

"Quiet! Just make it and bag it." - Me. 

The whole place now stares at me. They all want to know how I hold so much power in the establishment. I can tell that I frighten some, and disgust others. Yet they do not concern me, for I have come for one thing, and one thing only. The man passes it on to his next colleague who rubs me completely wrong from the start: 

 

"What else would you like sir?" - Female #1. 

"JUST MAKE IT D****T!! Make it, wrap it, and bag it. Now." - Me.

Her hands moved as fast a black belt performing a Judo chop while she completed my request. After what felt like hours, she finished. I could feel eyes boring holes in my back, others seeking a similar objective. However, I let it worry me not. They could wait. At long last, I grabbed the bag and tried to make a dash for the door but heard a petite voice say:

"That will be $6.65" - Female #2. 

And then my conscience tried to take over. 

(Comment: Where am I? How does the story resolve?)