Pansi Thursday and Thursdays past
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BecChapter 19: Late Thursday Night free porn video
The problem with having an exciting evening is that when you go to bed afterwards, it can be really hard to get to sleep. On Wednesday night, I went to sleep late, though I’ve no idea what time it was. I’d woken up this morning at about 3:00 AM, and I’d been going flat out all day since then, except for a couple of hours sleep in the nurse’s office in the afternoon. I should be tired. I was tired. My body was ready to go to sleep but my brain wasn’t. Or maybe it was the other way around and my brain was ready to go to sleep but my body wasn’t.
Whichever way it was, I couldn’t get to sleep. I lay on my back and looked up into the darkness. I rolled onto my side. I curled up into a ball. I rolled onto my stomach and buried my face in the pillow. I turned over and lay on my back and stared up into the darkness. I lay on my other side. I squished my pillow up a few times. I counted sheep jumping over a fence. I dug a hole under the fence and let the sheep crawl underneath. I walked six feet to the side and opened the gate so the poor sheep could walk through like any normal sheep would want to. None of it worked. The sheep went to sleep but I didn’t.
After some time of this, a little bit of my brain waved a white flag and asked for a parley. It said, “Can we do something else now? This is boring.” Soon all the bits of my brain were chanting “boring, boring!”
I sat at my desk, the work light bathing my face with its steady glow. I pulled my warm robe more tightly around my waist and wiggled my toes in my fluffy slippers. What to do? What to do? My attention was grabbed by a yellow post-it note stuck to the inside of my skull. It said “condi?”
That’s something to do. Grabbing my dictionary from its place beside my desk, I flipped through the pages to words starting with “condi.” There were words like “condition” and then “condiment” which I knew means seasonings like salt and pepper. There was no sign of the word I was looking for.
Straight after that were words starting with “condo” like “condole” and “condolence” and “condom” and “condominium.”
Oooh, what does it say about condom? (1: a rubber sheath worn over the penis to prevent conception or venereal infection during coitus 2: a device that is designed to be inserted into the vagina before coitus and that resembles in form and function the condom used by males.)
Inserted into the vagina? Huh? I thought they went on a boy’s penis like the first option says. Mum told me about condoms – she said they go on the boy’s penis to stop a girl from getting pregnant. She didn’t say anything about a condom that goes into a girl’s vagina. “Resembles in form and function...” does that mean it looks like a normal condom? Mum never showed me a normal condom, so that wasn’t helpful.
Hang on a minute! Is “coitus” what I think it is? Coitus, coitus, coitus ... there it is. Coitus (physical union of male and female genitalia accompanied by rhythmic movements; sexual intercourse) I giggled. Yep, that’s I thought! But why didn’t they just say “ ... during sex”? Hmm. Wait on, didn’t that president get into trouble for saying “I did not have sex with that woman,” when he really had done sex things with her, just not proper sex. Maybe he should have said “I did not have coitus with that woman.” Then everyone would have understood him.
This was all very interesting, but I started all this by looking up that “condi?” word and I still hadn’t found it. I was pretty sure it started with “cond” so I went back to the beginning of all the words starting with “cond” and worked my way through. Finally, right below “condemn,” I found something like what I was looking for, “condescend.” (intransitive verb 1: to act in a superior way, to behave toward other people as though they are inferior 2: to do something regarded as unimportant or demeaning in order to impress others.) I wasn’t sure about the second meaning but the first option was more or less right – except I couldn’t remember what an “intransitive verb” is. Listed straight below that I saw “condescending.” (adjective, assuming a tone of superiority or a patronizing attitude.)
That’s the word. Now I remembered it. Dan was being condescending when he said what he said! Inside my brain I took the yellow post-it note, scribbled out “condi?” and wrote “condescending” instead. Then I filed the note under “useful words” in the memory part of my brain.
I thought maybe I should try to use “condescending” three times tomorrow. But then I thought that if I used it to a teacher by saying something like “You’re being condescending” they might get angry. And I couldn’t see how I could say “condescending” to another student without being condescending by using it. So maybe that wasn’t a good idea.
I was just about to close the dictionary when I started to wonder about “intransitive verb.” I knew a verb was an action word – the “intransitive” part had me stumped. Dad always told me to look at parts of the word for pieces I recognized. This word has “transit” in it. I was pretty sure “transit” means travel, like a “transit system” is buses or trains. “In” sometimes means inside. So it could mean travel inside something like inside a bus. But “condescend” was nothing like that, so that couldn’t be right. Then I remembered that “in” sometimes means the opposite of – like “inaccurate” is the opposite of “accurate.” Maybe intransitive verbs are all the verbs that are not travel words.
Then I went “Doh!” and slapped my forehead. I was holding a dictionary and trying to figure out what a word meant. How stupid am I? I looked up “intransitive” (a verb having or needing no object – see transitive verb). Hmm! What’s an object? What sort of object? What does it mean that it doesn’t need one? It said “see transitive verb” so I looked up “transitive” (a verb needing an object – see intransitive). How infuriating. The stupid dictionary was sending me round in circles. I shut the dictionary and shoved it back into its place, glaring at it in disgust.
I walked through the darkness of the living room, trailing the fingers of my right hand lightly along the wall. The darkness allowed me to focus on the slightly coarse feel of the painted surface under my fingers. Then my fingers found the bottom of the frame that held one of Mum’s paintings. I couldn’t make out the picture in the darkness, but that was okay. I closed my eyes and I could see it clearly, projected on the inside of my skull.
It was a portrait Mum painted soon after Angie was born. Tara is seated on a low stool holding a chubby baby Angie like she’s the most precious thing in the world. There’s ten-year-old me on my knees on the carpet beside them, one arm draped over Tara’s shoulders, the other reaching in front to help support Angie’s tiny, precious head. We’re wearing shorts and t-shirts, bright colors – it was summer. Both our faces are filled with love and awe and joy as we look at Angie’s round little face. Behind us, Mum stands looking out into the room, one hand on each of our shoulders. She looks proud and strong. Her eyes catch anyone who looks. You can almost hear her voice. “Look at these. Look what I made. In my body I bore them. With my hands I raised them. These are my girls.” A few times when I looked at the painting I heard her say something different. Sometimes Mum seemed to be glaring out into the room and saying, “Don’t mess with me. Don’t mess with my girls!” Did I mention sometimes Mum can be scary? We never posed for the painting of course, Mum painted it from out of her head. It’s a really good painting.
I ran my fingers along the wooden frame, letting them explore the texture of the wood. Then when I was directly under the middle of the painting, I did what I have done countless times before. I dropped my hand and turned my back on it. Usually I’ve done this in a brightly lit room, so I could see clearly what I’m looking at. This time, looking across the room in the darkness, I could only just make out a rectangular frame, darker than the wall it sits on, above the couch. I couldn’t see it very well of course but it was there, the matching painting.
That one has Dad standing with Dan on the grass in front of a football goalpost. Dan is in his high school football uniform, holding a ball loosely under one arm. Dad stands beside Dan, holding the helmet for him. They both have calm, relaxed expressions on their faces, but there is a hidden strength in both of them. The family resemblance is strong. Those two have nothing to say. Together, they gaze solidly out of the picture, directly across the room. Right to where I’m standing. Right to where our picture hangs. This is a favorite place for me. Right in front of Mum and my sisters. Right where Dad and Dan can watch over me. I can feel their silent gaze resting on me, watching me, loving me. I can feel Mum’s hand on my shoulder, Tara beside me, Angie held in our arms. This is my family, this is where I belong. This is where I’m strongest. This is where I’m safest.
I stood in the dark, silent and still, and looked down at my parents, sleeping in their bed. Once again, there’s a large expanse of empty bed between them. It’s a Bec sized space. I would fit neatly into that gap. I’d be quite comfortable lying there. I wasn’t really welcome though. If I crawled into that bed, Dad would get out and go sleep on the couch.
Maybe once when I was little, it was okay but not anymore. I didn’t understand why.
It’s probably something to do with what’s wrong with me.
I lay on my back in my own bed and stared up into the darkness. I rolled onto my side. I curled up into a ball. I rolled onto my stomach and buried my face in the pillow. I turned over and lay on my back and stared up into the darkness. I lay on my other side. I squished my pillow up a few times. I counted sheep jumping over a fence, crawling under a fence, walking through a gate. I counted how many sheep went to sleep. I counted backwards from one hundred by sevens and got to negative one hundred and thirty-something before I got confused.
My brain felt so tired. It cried out in frustration.
Marisol
- 23.04.2020
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