As of Yet, Untitled

You stop on this page. The by line reads “By WENDIE SALES”. You think to yourself that she’s probably attractive. Most likely, she’ a recent college graduate with straight brown hair, and geek-sheik glasses that are a bit too modisch for the moment to last too long but the moment is now. And that turns you on in some way that must remain unspoken in the name of dignity’s sake. It turns you on and that repulses you.

No picture accompanies the by line. The writers for this publication must obviously be more concerned about journalistic integrity than the blatant self-promotion of a head shot. A photo would only ruin your expectations, but that’s why you read this. It’s a forum for your vivid imaginings. You rarely complete the articles. Rather, they are a jump-off point for your mind to let itself wander, a place made familiar long ago: grammar school history readings. A phase not fully grown out of, subject being you.

A chapter on Jefferson, but it only takes four sentences, a rudimentary paragraph, before his monetary value is questioned, which makes you wonder what set of criterion was used to determine why some historical figured were worth more than others while some are worth nothing at all. Benjamin Franklin, you question, what made him so god damned privileged.

A photo would only ruin your expectations and expectations are premeditated resentments. This is what an old friend, the quaint term for someone to whom you can no longer relate, once told you. A friend who made it his job to remove all traces of anonymity from the support groups he attended regularly. In AA, he became as close of friends as one could get with a room of recovering strangers hiding behind the brown stained rims of reused styrofoam cups. He even went as far as bringing in people who did not need coins and coffee and once-a-month smoker’s meetings to determine how long they had been dry for. This really pissed you off. To you, he exposed the AL-Anon believers for being a room filled with just drunkards who were not having a good time anymore. He exposed the tender underbellies, the Achilles heel, in every situation encountered. To you he was there to cause harm, albeit subconsciously, with the hidden intent of exacting his revenge on anyone considered harmless and unsuspecting. To everyone else, he was the slow kid that didn’t get it but that’s-okay-because-we-love-him-anyway.

You didn’t want to think about that, though. Wendie Sales sat at your lap, deserving of every last ounce your attention could pour out.