a little tale about arrogance and big penises
the last time i did not take a shower before braving the tiny shopping district of den haag, i was followed around a shop, obviously taken for a shoplifter. a few hours ago, jo parfitt thought i was not good enough for her writing workshop. and i am fucking livid.
i was at the american book center, filthy and on a caffeine-induced euphoria. after several minutes of browsing the stephen king and memoirs section, i went upstairs to check for bargains. barbara kingsolver’s the poisonwood bible greeted me again, and begged to be picked up. the cover looked a bit pretentious and i am not the one to follow an old saying.
right in the middle of the room was a malnourished table with some flyers scattered on it. manning the table (or so it seemed) were two women, the shell wives type (shell has its offices here in the hague). i remembered that it’s the kickoff of the NaNoWriMo (national novel writing month) at the bookstore so I headed to the table to ask for some information and possibly, sign up. the workshops are being led a jo parfitt, an author, apparently.
and so i stood in front of them, reading two sheets of flyer and waiting to be acknowledged by either of the two. i started to bring my acting one notch higher and strained myself to look very engrossed in the workshops offered and their prices. they did not even look my way. i am checking in at 90 kilos, made even wider by my winter coat and they did not notice me. i smiled.
the emaciated of the two, started to talk. it went like:
“i always wanted to write but there’s something wrong with me. after theo van gogh was murdered, i was just so affected by it that I don’t know where to start…”
theo van gogh was murdered in amsterdam on november 2004. this woman has some fucking serious problem. it’s fucking 2008.
the other woman listened attentively, absorbing every drop of shit energy flowing around them. i could not help it—i had to say something.
“excuse me, but are these the courses being offered currently?” i ran my finger through the list.
the healthy woman looked at me and did not bother to hide her annoyance. she channeled heavy hangover quite perfectly.
“yes…yada yada yada yada..they are already writing yada yada. i am yada yada”
“so..you are jo parfitt?”
“yes. just get the flyers that you need.” with a slight flick of her hand, i was turned away. and as if i was never there, she turned to the emaciated woman again and resume their conversation.
i returned the flyers i was holding and turned my back on them.
embarassed, i went back downstairs and thumbed through taschen’s the big penis book. saw john holmes’ dick and rubbed it for good luck.
