pants without patience

I was desperate to commit suicide. I was working at a magazine that does not really exist and I was going over stories that were coming in endlessly, like dismembered chickens at a Foster Farm's packing plant. On my desk next to the computer were a few vials of unknown serums, liquids that held the key to the consummations of my desire. One that visually struck me was a three-inch high dropper bottle that held no more than 100 milliliters of liquid. The bottle itself was bumble bee yellow and it was covered in black block letters.

While looking at the printed directions and cautions, I realized that this was a poison specifically designed to exterminate black widows. Without a thought, I opened the vial and guzzled the molasses-colored fluid down. I felt a warmth within my esophagus, one that burned away at its lining while it headed to the digestive track. Soon, my head was spinning and I was asking loony questions that made no sense such as: "Who stole my pink flip flops?" and "Why is there sugar on the soles?." I continued to stare at the bottle's label and I drank some more of the other poisonous potions that were coincidentally placed on my desk. My coworkers noticed my behavior and asked me if I was okay, did I need anything?, etc.

About an hour into the attempted suicide, I realized that this stuff was only going to make me loopy, groggy and incomprehensible, so I decided to tell someone what I had taken, but I did not give the reasons for which I did it. A girl told me that I should go to a doctor, but I responded sloshedly that I should go to a food court in the mall and get some nourishment in my stomach. She was ambivalent about the whole thing so I left the building and headed to the mall.

When I arrived at the shiny palace of consumerism, I was in a courtyard that was really the art studio department at UC Santa Barbara. Once again, as in many of my past experiences, I was wearing no pants, so I began to gather fabric in an effort to make a haphazard skirt. I went with a fuzzy brown shawl that I wrapped around my naked thighs and hips. Once I was decent, I headed to the food court which was upstairs. After I entered the unusually quiet cafeteria, I got in a short line to get a rice bowl. My stomach was still churning the poison into my veins, so suffice to say I was not feeling very well. Cramps attacked me below the belt and nausea took care of my upper regions so no part of me felt calm.

Suddenly, I raced upstairs to use the rest room; I had to urinate very badly. Once I was on the top floor which was much more modern and geometric than the one before it, I was told that there were no bathrooms up there. There was also only one way to get back downstairs and that was to slide down a chrome pole in front of everyone in the establishment. I sat against the windows, my back facing the landscape. Once again, I was only wearing a striped shirt and panties. No pants meant there was no way I was sliding down a stripper's pole so that I could jet to the bathroom before I wet my pants. I mean my legs?

So I remained propped against the window with my knees bent up against my chest and I tried to conceal my nakedness. I began to cry silently and my bare, cold legs slipped against my chest and arms due to the tears. People passed by me and snickered; the linoleum was ice cold and slippery against my rear end. In such an open space, I was trapped, pinned against a window. I was an unlikely or arcane specimen in which no one had any interest in studying. I never made it to the bathroom, but I also never peed. And I also was never able to find my pants.

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