Clonazepam: The Flavour of Love

Maybe I’m not really in love with her. Maybe it’s just an intense physical attraction. We’ve spoken a whole of five minutes and the majority of it was about sandwiches. There’s nothing erotic about a turkey and cheese on Italian…wait, why am I remembering this? Is it really that important? No. No, of course, it isn’t, What the fuck is wrong with me? I glance up at the glow stars and they’re laughing at me once again. If I wasn’t cast in the role of the fool, I don’t know what I’d be. Then again, I’m not entirely sure of what I am. What I am sure of is that I can’t go back to work for the next few days. I’ll never make manager pulling this kind of stunt, but Sandwich Passion isn’t my career goal. I don’t think it should be anybody’s career goal, but then, who am I to deprive someone of their edible career ambitions? 

The laughter of the stars echoes through my bones and mingles with the hypnotic 60’s melody that is, for some reason, filling the little voids inside me. No, I don’t think that I love her. I’m not even sure if I’m capable of love. I’ve never experienced it before. I guess it’s possible that I have but I mistook it for something else, like indigestion or something. Funny things these emotions.

…

I’m laid back on a bench, staring at the clouds. It was the perfect day to wear my “Occupy the Moon” t-shirt. It’s got this neat little doodle of an astronaut version of Johnny Rotten on it. I wonder what life on the moon would be like. Anything has to be better than this planet. Well no, cooperations and the disgusting slobs that throw money at them will no doubt pollute that surface too. 

A cloud that resembles Christopher Walken stares down on me and for a moment I feel haunted. Talk about a powerful bloke. There’s just something about him that can strike fear into the heart of any man, woman or child with a look. I wish I had that kind of power. If I had that kind of power maybe I’d be able to make a move on my lovely chubette. I’ve not seen her in weeks and I’m starting to lose hope. Maybe she has a boyfriend…or a girlfriend, you never really know these days. I wish I knew. I've been trying to purge my thoughts of her, but it's been unsuccessful. What even is love? I've never really been in love before, so I don't really know. I could ask someone, but that would sound pathetic and I don't need that added to my resume. I don't even know her name and I'm willing to throw everything away on her. Maybe I have a brain tumour. It's gotta be that or something else. This isn't normal or in any way healthy.
Oh, Chubette. Why does the image of your extra-stuffed thighs stuffed into a pair of skinnies make me want to sing? And why is the thought of your slight muffin top enough to make me want to scream your name from the roof? I'm officially gone insane. I lean back at the clouds, trying once again to get her out of my head, only to be greeted by a cloud in the shape of a chubby girl eating a doughnut. There is no God.

....

I’ve been fired from my job at the sandwich shop. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did. That’s the way most things happen I think. As Bob Ross would say, “There are no mistakes, only happy accidents.” Sorry, Bob, but there are a lot of mistakes in the world and I'm currently watching one trying to work the computer at the customer service desk. And now I will never see her again. I'm tortured by this fact. I'm about ready to go and hide in the back where all of the other sad, desperate guys do when a familiar shadow graces the door of the shop. It's her. My heart drops into my large intestine as I watch her slow, almost model-like, slow waltz. My mouth goes dry as she heads in my direction. Maybe there is a God.

She leans over the counter, her belly pressed on top of it and I struggle to stay cool. 'Remember who you are. Do you know who you are?' She pops her gum. "Hey, I know you. You work at Sandwich Passion don't you?" My throat goes dry and all I can mange is to shake my head yes. I remember what's happened, clear my throat and say, "I was recently fired. There was, uh, some trouble with management.' And by that I meant management having a problem with me drooling in the toppings whenever she walked in. I keep that fact to myself. "That's too bad. you make the world's best sandwiches." I offer a small, shy smile. "Thanks." She leans a little closer and the smell of her perfume wafts over me. "Maybe you can help a girl with something else?" 'Is this flirting? Is she flirting with me? Or maybe she just knows I'm a mess when it comes to her and she wants to extort my new employee discount? FOCUS MAN!' I take a second or two to compose myself. "What can I help you with?" She twirls one of her curls around her index finger. "Well, I'm looking for something that will flatter my curves." Sweet Mary mother of Christ. "O-oh, what kind of things are you looking for? Jeans, mini-skirt?" "Well, first, I'm going to need some new knickers, could you show me where the intimates are?" The world implodes right before my eyes. "I-I-They're this way." I walk through the cosmetic department, past the vortex of home goods and into the intimates. "Women or Missus?" I struggle to ask. "Well, I'm all woman, so women." 'You damn well are, you foxy lady!'  

"Ah, what style?" I start praying to whoever is out there listening that she doesn't say a thong. I don't think I could handle that. I'm already finding it hard not to pop wood thinking about this. I'm like a cunt hair away from losing it and pitching a tent right in the middle of the department...which is a problem for two reasons. One, I'm not in the sporting goods section, that's' over and back to the right and two, it's not professional. "I'm thinking low-rider bikini cut." That's almost as bad as a thong. I show her over to the section where they have all colours, varieties and flavours of bikini cut underwear. She looks around, before pulling out a small black lace number that I know would struggle to contain her feminine girth. "What do you think of these?" That does it. All the blood rushes from my head down south and I pass out.