Stephen King is out to destroy me
Okay, this is started to get really weird.
You know when you hear learn a new word, then start hearing it all the time? Like hegemony, read it, looked it up, acknowledged it – suddenly its in every news report.
Well that's what's going on with my life only not a harmless word – and a hundred times more freaky.
Today's scenario, my waiter at the cafe.
I sit down with the Georgia Straight, start shuffling through the pages and suddenly I feel the pits of hell on my legs, only in liquid form. I throw the paper, litterally throw it up like in an overacting sketch comedy player (right, Tanya?), and I start hopping on my feet.
Remember, I have no idea whats going on, I was just innocently reading the paper.
I pull the front of my pants forward, you know, like get the smoldering lava off my skin, and then I hear, “Motherfucker!” So I look up and see him: STEPHEN KING, in a brown apron over a stupid white golf shirt.
He's looking right at me, as if I AM the motherfucker he speaks of. I'm completely nonplussed, I let go of my pants and let it burn through my thighs. I really can't feel a part of my body anymore. In many ways, he looked the most like Stephen King. More than the unstable driver or sad-sack Russian. In hindsight, those guys only resembled King – this guy murdered King and wore his face as a mask!
Only he was younger, much younger. Like a awkward and gangley 23 year old who never grew up out of that stage on his graduation like most teen dorks do.
When I realized this, and looked behind his thick frames and disheveled wig, and acknowledged that he's 1/3 the author's age and weight, I said, “What the hell is your problem?!”
Finally, “...I'm so sorry.” But the way he apologized was so insincere. As if he planned it, like he wanted to burn me into with the third degree. I ate on the house (obviously) and they punched two entire coffee cards for me to bring me back, but not if that punk ass demon is still employed there.
You're probably laughing (so am I, just so we're on the right page) but this is starting to haunt me. So many men look like Stephen King, or rather, one person a day in Vancouver looks like Stephen King.
I better not need a skin-graph to repair these thighs of mine.