Aside from the unfounded, neurotic paranoias about work there’s not much I’m really scared of; and when I say scared I mean like a visceral fear, not a Halloween kind of planned scaredness.
OK, maybe “visceral” is the wrong adjective– that sounds like a lot and I don’t mean that much. I’m going to reserve “visceral fear” for things like the first time I played Left 4 Dead, that scene in Alien 3 where it’s running all over the place with the heartbeat in the background, thinking about how I’d feel if I got a phone call saying Lily had been kidnapped, and walking alone through the parking lot of my apartment complex while packs of dark visages pocked by lit cigarettes contemplate evil deeds so dark they almost project grainy, 8mm images on the buildings behind them.
Depends on the context, I guess.
Anyway, this is more of a pervasive, uncomfortable fear; the kind that doesn’t completely ruin your evening but just out of view threatens to bare its prickly thorns, putting a damp and somber shroud over what could be a really fun day.
It’s kind of an “unseen danger” type of thing. You know it’s there, it knows you know it’s there, you don’t know if it’s going to get you, it knows if it’s going to get you or not, and you just kind of … wait. So maybe it’s not fear as much as apprehension sharpened by a throbbing, innate anxiety.
Sonofabitch, I feel manipulated now. Playing my own neurosis against me. Oh well, I was never really good at games the first time ’round, anyway. Usually takes me a few tries and a few untimely deaths before I can figure out the patterns. Hell, look at my body … I mean … meh, another time.
Point is, the above is the kind of fear I feel when I come home and look at my door.
Let me explain. A few days ago the little-dicked, wanna-be-officer crack parking security team clamped my car and made me beg and plead on my knees, give sexual favors, money, gifts, loud exaltations of surprise laced with dismay at how “big his cock is” and promises of free dinners to remove them.
While I was being thusly humiliated, a man smoking a cigar (keep in mind this is like 8:30 in the morning) started chatting with me.
Cigar-Smoking Man (James): What happened? You get into an accident or something?
Amy: No, no. They thought it’d be funny to plant a handicap sign in front of where I parked while I slept so they could clamp my car and charge the other residents to laugh at me in their pajamas.
James: That sucks. So where you live?
Amy: (Awwww, shit … I can’t lie ’cause he’ll see me around … what’s he gonna do, show up at my fucking house? He’ll forget by the time he finishes his cigar) Uhhh … building 12.
James: Which apartment number?
Amy: (Uuuugh … if I were mean I’d say, “None of your business, fucker,” and snort and walk away) Uhhhh … that one.
James: Which one?
Amy: (FUCK.) Uhhh … 1206?
James: OK, I’ll come visit ya.
Amy: (Whew, he’ll definitely forget) Yeah, you do that.
So I -may- not have used those -exact- words but you get the gist of where things went.
To my gut-wrenching SHOCK, the man actually came over to my house. TWICE in one day. The first time I was fast asleep at 4:00 in the afternoon (was a day off for me and I caught up on sleep) and the second was like an hour-and-a-half later.
Again, ’cause I’m not used to being rude enough to think on my toes and get him out of there, he invited himself in. The mind reels at the potential danger that lies here and my mind is just now grasping that very concept.
Long story short, we had a pleasant little chat, he hit on me … A LOT (which is flattering and creepy as shit at the same time) … made a few passes and gropes (see previous) … and finally left happy and hopefully not adding me to his “To Kill When Utterly Disgruntled and Have Nothing to Lose” list.
I agree wholeheartedly with Dane Cook’s opinion about quiet and scary people: BE. NICE. TO. THEM. When they snap and start blowing away everyone in your place of residence/work/school, you stand a higher chance of being skipped than your co-victims.
The whole thing is kinda sad because I do like dark-skinned guys and apparently they like me back … but he’s got NOTH-THING to offer beyond warm skin and a smile which isn’t that incredibly high on my list right now.
Oh well, maybe I’m the crazy one. Let’s just hope he forgets to come over again.