shithead

This time last year, I had no costume to wear to the party. I found a spare toilet seat I had laying around in the garage, wondering for a moment why I would have such an item kept as a spare, but just for a moment, and then unwrapped its plastic and put it on. The seat rested on my shoulders with my head poking out of the hole. A dark stocking with knots tied in it graced my cranium, and I wrote, ‘out of order’ on the front of a white shirt made to look like a sign.

All evening, glisten-bosom women in purple-sparkle masks and snug, black dresses called me, ‘shithead’, and they brought me more drinks.

“Hey shithead! Want another drink?” they’d say, and I’d answer, drunk and smiling, the bowl-seat wobbling on my shoulders.

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