an experiment

I started reading a great new blog, a trashbag full of donuts. The author is very funny, and uses words and grammar in a way that is accessible and exciting. (That sounds like English 101 bullshit when you didn't read the passage assigned for that class, so you try to wing it when you get called on, but OHMYGOD you are so out in left field and everyone knows it.) It's one of those weird things where you don't know why you didn't try that style before, it's so obvious, but nobody else is doing it, either. 

she uses grammar and punctuation in a way that would make my high school english teacher collapse from a coronary. she writes in lower-case because she CAN, except when she wants emphasis. really, she has a degree in literature, so she can do whatever the hell she wants. 

a n y w a y

(Jesus, that felt really deliberate. You have to WANT to type that out and lengthen that word in the reader's mind.) 

she also does this thing to emphasize her thoughts:

  • bullet points are used
  • frequently
  • and to great effect

Meanwhile, her short stories are heartbreaking in their emotional precision. the author of this trashbag greatness also revisits stories from her youth, so i thought i would give it a go, in her style. 

A STORY IN THE STYLE OF A TRASHBAG FULL OF DONUTS

the time i threw up while on a chaperoned date

i met my first love in elementary school, like so many of us do. we had recess weddings and cried at homecoming if we saw the other person dancing with someone else. let's call him bob. i've known bob since i spied his rat tail on the playground, he's belonged to me since he was seven years old. 

r i g h t.

so, when we were thirteen or so, bob wanted to go to the county fair. he wanted me to go with him! i was thinking like, oh man what if we ride the ferris wheel and WE GET STUCK and then we have to MAKE OUT WHILE BACKDROPPED BY THE MOON

his mom drove us. why?

  • we were thirteen
  • we had no other modes of transportation
  • a boy scout and a girl you've known for six years are too hormonal to be trusted 

my only memories of this date are these three:

  1. we rode the scrambler for almost ten minutes because the operator wandered off, abandoning us to stomach-churning gyroscopic forces.
    1. what is the scrambler? it scrambles you. 
  2. his mother held back my hair while i vomited near the fairway.
  3. i threw up again outside of their car. they had to watch because they were still pulling out of the driveway. i wandered upstairs to where my dad was meeting with friends who would LEAVE OUR HOUSE AND WALK THROUGH MY VOMIT and said, "where's the hose?"

the moral of the story is I HATE GODDAMN SCRAMBLERS.