k. edward scissorhead

bun, your ice cream is magical A joke I learned in London

“Pint of lager please mate.”

Fuck me, a talking duck. Amazing. That’ll be �1.80″(the bar was up
north) Duck pays up. Necks the pint. Leaves.

Next day. Duck walks into the same bar. “Alright mate, pint of lager please.”

“You know,” says the barman “I saw some posters for a circus coming to
town next week. Occurs to me someone like yourself could get a
handsomely paid job with a circus.”

“A circus ? Isn’t that one of them things with a big pointy tent ?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“What the fuck would they want with a bricklayer ?”


I found her.

I have two childhood friends left. Real, true, “childhood friends”, which is a funny friend category in itself. The only have two I�ve been friends with since the dawn of time, age six, age 10. I have two other good (great) girlfriends from my hometown- and yes, when I say �great�, I mean it. They are great. But they came along later.

But these two- these two are different. They�re family, permanent. Neither are anything like each other, and neither are they anything like me. Probably you can�t pick three more opposite people. I have nothing in common with either of these women- we don�t have the same acquaintances; we don�t have any similar interests. We don�t like the same music or movies. We don�t have the same hangouts. I don�t see the first one much- we call occasionally, do margarita nights. She got a finance degree from Tech, bought a townhouse with her boyfriend, hangs with her sorority sisters. Works out at her gym. Etc. She�s a great source of hometown gossip. But she never changes, and it�s great to have stability, even if it�s boring. So, I love her for that.

Then there is the other one. The one with tattoos and track marks up both arms. I�ve known her since I was six, I still have a picture of us at a birthday party together. Foreshadowing is a bitch- I am in blond pigtails, biting my nails. She�s the brunette grinning maniacally with her party dress lifted up over her head, to show off her underwear. It�s straight out of a shitty �Lifetime� movie. I should have known then.

We were inseparable in elementary and middle school, and then split ways once our late teens came around. She missed weeks of high school, skipped classes. I played sports, I joined student governments. She reluctantly joined lit mag and snuck smoke breaks out back near the science wing. But somehow we maintained a kind of uneasy and awkward friendship, don�t ask me how. Maybe it was just a weird mutual respect- I admired her creativity, her �fuck-everyone� attitude. She admired what she thought was my normalcy, my happy life. I don�t think either of us really knew the truth- she longed for a little bit of that life, I was angry I didn�t have a little bit of hers. We were stuck in roles and neither of us were expected to break out, so we stayed, because it was easier that way.

W ithout a doubt, she is the smartest woman I have ever met. She was reading Victor Hugo to me at sleepovers when we were ten. She would memorize calculus equations for fun. When all of us wanted Malibu Barbies, asked for a chemistry set.

We then promptly blew up a lot of her mom�s glassware, but whatever.

She was the brave one, the creative one, the very scary one. She is highly influential and manipulative as hell- her little brother was practically her pet, and I hear he�s pretty much just shooting up all the time now. (I also read in the paper he set fire to his house.) When she was 13, she called me from outside her parents sweet little country suburban house, driving her mom�s car with her dad�s unloaded shotgun hanging out the window- she wanted to see what her neighbors would do. Again, the foreshadowing.

I know she was able to graduate somehow, and I thought since we had close last names, alphabetically, she�d be sitting near me in her robe and gown and probably some type of bizarre striped Beetlejuice-stockings, or maybe naked underneath, because that would be something she�d do. I was looking forward to the entertainment, but she never showed. I didn�t try to find her to say goodbye. Soon after I left for college, got a few letters from her for the first few months, and that was it. I lost track of her. Have I felt guilty? Maybe.

But now I�ve found her. (And maybe, since I know where she is, I also know the location of some slightly incriminating video tapes. I think they may have something to do with us performing Cure music videos dressed in all black when we were twelve, but I�m not sure.) Anyways.

She�s been through rehab after rehab� I think she was following Helmet through Germany, or The Cramps through Bavaria. She lived in San Francisco for a while. Once hitting complete and total bottom, she has found herself back home, clean, and struggling through a psych degree at a commuter college, and a shitty part-time job. Her biggest worries now are that her tattoo artist just ran off mid-shield with Pantera; not where�s she going to get clean needles. I can�t describe how good of a thing this is. We�re going out for coffee and to shoot the shit next week.

So, Bun. So, K. Edward. Giver of many nicknames, eater of many foul foods, creator of many paintings and poems- Holy poop. I know where you are. You sneaky little devil.

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