Some people enjoy the climax, the unsteady ladder climb to explosion, the involuntary muscle contractions, shaking, and discharge – of the perfectly concocted climax to a story. Some people like to present a well-prepared thesis after a lengthy introduction – anecdote, facts, Webster definition – but I am not some people.
I ate paper last night.
One third of an invoice to be exact, the palatable parchment shared with two friends, an appropriate culmination to arguably the worst night of my life.
"We must get rid of the evidence," she stared into the dark backseat with all the gravity she could muster.
"We will have to eat it," I announced with all the esteem I could assemble in my then inebriated state.
And so we did, with the assistance of her boyfriend, conscripted into paper-munching by the threat of an imposed sex ban, fallacio included. The contents of Burger King plastic cups acting as lubricants, hypoallergenic and dye free, we rolled the tablet for credit card numbers into balls and inserted. Chew, grind, swish saliva, and swallow.
I choked, laughed, producing an animalistic gurgle, which in turn distorted two puzzled faces into looks of concern, pink lips smeared with ink, tongues working paper balls into edible mush. So it had come to this.
I was celebrating my successful admission into the business world as an administrative bitch to the office manager with The Marquis, music, and self-inflicted torture. A position to "prove my girth" (I thought only applicable to penis size), as my mother says, albeit in a field I would never, even under the threat of figurative professional decapitation, consider for a career. My apologies to the administrative bitches in the world, however we are assigned a national holiday in exchange, in appreciation for the vital services we (I can say we now right?) provide.
"Hey guys (insert interpretation of my voice here), shots are on me. Uhh…one Washington Apple, a Whiskey, well please, and Tequila (gagging noises here)."
If I was to spend my night in a venue with the guy whose name always follows the words: I wish I would have…, then I was to do it with the backing of Jack, Jose, and – uh Absolute? - The whole if-then equation.
Our numbers scrabbled, the mathematical statement, applied to three career slip-ups produced: one if, and several thens. The result: paper eating.
A patron of the music lifted my jacket. While I was busying myself with thens, she was stuffing my jacket underneath her in-style, maternity inspired tent-shirt, or he was shoving it in his girlfriend's purse turned miniature doggie carrier. I could excuse this blatant music-foul – and you call yourself a fan – but my keys were tucked in the inner pocket pf the coat. They not only committed theft (A crime against one of the Ten Commandments. Moses would be pissed), but they took my hard-earned access to a motor vehicle, displeased my parents, and drove me to the brink, and subsequent fall into voluntary consumption of paper.
We exited the venue, having lost one member to lewd promises, accompanied by the sound of hurling insults, slurred and incoherent. Apparently we can be obnoxious. I wore my hood up, my identity fashionably cloaked.
The locksmith arrived, in the guise of a savior and sporting a sexy Russian accent. It was only a farce and an argument ensued as to his deceitful first appearance. Drunks: 3 – Sober: 1.
"You didn't make the right key!" I rolled the insult down the lane. Spare!
"You didn't tell me which one to make!" Strike!
We ended with the lower score.
His pen moved in slow motion, the debit card numbers dripped like molasses onto the invoice – 4...5...2 – the scratch was deafening, like The Chipmunks on sedatives. Discovering an opportunity, my coconspirator, a rebel both sober and tanked, snatched the slip from two burly hair adorned Russian paws and ran, stumbled, then ran. We curled into flesh balls, convinced we were successfully hidden from view by the camouflage of beige leather. Our skin lightened by the approaching winter.
Her soon-to-be-paper-eating boyfriend returned to the car and informed us that the fine officers of the law had been called in for investigation. The Law: 1 Civilian: 0.
We had to dispose of the evidence immediately. So we did what any right-minded girls would, we ate it.
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