Julep stood there, wondering why things turn out the way they do. She pretended not to notice the boy with the hair or his mother, but it was obvious by the way she moved. He had spotted her and was looking interested in conversation. She stuck out as usual, with the coloured yarn spun and woven throughout her hair, standing knock kneed in her schoolgirl uniform (having never worn one growing up, this was her chance to be 'bad' she supposed). The boy with the hair moved in close. She thumbed through an issue of Concealed Carry Monthly and tried to act like she was reading it.
"Hey you were at the Salamander last nite weren't you?" He warbled at her.
"Yeah," She breathed, smiling fakely. "I'm there once in a while."
"Great show wasn't it? That one band with the spinning speaker thing and the..."
"Those were my friends," She lies, then realizes that she has basically agreed to more conversation. " I mean...um..."
"You know those guys?!" He asks excitedly. He is beginning to vibrate a bit now.
"Well actually - I...sort of..."
"Do you think that you could introduce me to them?" He cuts her off.
She gives in and puts the magazine back in the rack right next to Big-Bore Quarterly.
How is she gonna get herself out of this one? Ugh.
The boy with the hair tried to make an impression, even though he was obviously out-classed, out-ranked and much too young.
"I'm in a band." He blurts, while making shifty hormone-eyes at her.
"Guitar, right?" She asks, already knowing the answer.
"Omygosh how did you know?! C-c-could you tell just by looking at me?" He vibrates at her.
Julep does not have the heart to tell him that every snot nosed punk that manages to get his greasy stringy hair down past his ears obviously plays guitar. Usually quite badly.
I bet you suck she thinks to herself, but what actually comes out is interrupted by Mom - who, now done with browsing through Improved Abodes & Flowerbeds, feels that Hobart has tortured the strange looking girl quite enuff.
"Hobart," She says, sinuses resonating. "Come pick out your little guitar magazine so we can go pumpkin."
"Its Bart ma," He defends. "Say BART."
Looking to see where he now stands (now that mother has ultimately embarrassed him in front of a girl), his eyes shoot over to the tall, strange looking girl that he will be guiltily masturbating to later on this evening. Julep, showing a look of disapproval to the idea that this kid's mother chose to breed in the first place, is struck with a wave of pity for him. She glances at his mother, then at him, She then gives a slow wink followed by a sultry "See you later, Bart" and walks past him - making sure that her right breast brushes against the quivering high-schooler's arm.
Walking away wearing a half-cocked smirk, she could just imagine the look on his face. She spent the rest of lunch postulating what the ride home was like for Bart and the things his mother would say to him about women or rather, that kind of woman.

Laying in bed awake by yourself is good for only two things: Servicing yourself or thinking too much. By too much I mean letting the smallest thing eat away at you untill there is no hope of ever getting to sleep. Tonite's self-services have been cancelled and the thinking police are walking their beat.
-
Our hero has been a little freaked out by recent events. She is concerned about her friend Xiola and what her intentions might be. Maybe a bit creeped out but not sure. Now, during traumatic events, the mind can play tricks. Memory can serve you wrong or at at least, be cocked askew. These are coping mechanisms, built in and refined for our own protection since the dawn of man (or at least since the dawn of woman). Is there a way to tell what has been changed for your own protection? Sometimes merely asking whether someone involved in the same trauma experienced it differently can distort their memory of it. Just before the dog, she was having a conversation. Something awkward, hmm. Was she just listening? Maybe it was the song that was playing that got mixed up in her head. Dammit. File that one under stuff to worry about tomorrow.
Julep rolls onto her back and the gears start turning again: I know I freaked out about the burrito. What's wrong with meat? Is it so bad that our bodies act as filters for the poisons that our lovely livestock are fed? Should anyone care how they are treated if they can't complain? Is there an animal God that looks over animal heaven? Does that God give a fuck about humans since they are not part of the animal heaven gig, or do animal God and people God have mamosas on Sunday mornings while all the good people are under the steeple? But I like vegetables. Is it some kind of reverse prejudice to only eat plants? They can't complain either, but do they not have a soul? Is there a plant/veggie God, watching over a vast organic farm in the clouds? The sun always shining, the soil always soft, moist and fertile - like the loins of the farmer's daughter that tends the land...
HOLY SHIT
What the fuck was that about?! Was I dreaming?


Julep is convinced thast lucid dreams are the milk of the soul left out too long...
But really, does anyone have a soul? Where the hell is it then? Surely not the pancreas or the cocyx...

And she is off again, eyes gently rolling back and forth.

To better understand things, lets go back in time just a bit:

Julep sat rocking back and forth, arms crossed over her belly. Her eyeliner was beginning to run, streaking her cheeks symbolically like the bars of an emotional jail cell - a bit in shock from what she had almost heard and what she had just seen. The animal lay in what would best be described as a pile, feebly moving its head now and again at the sound of a passing automobile. Its eyes blankly tried to follow the sound, but starting to glaze over and not much use. She knew what happened. At least the three and a half seconds of her involvement. The beast had tried to cross the road in the usual manner: darting out confusedly into a four lane meat grinder. A few screeches and thumps later, she was the last of them to hit the dog. It had not been a head-on affair. A sharp swerve caused the canine to be bounced off the side of the car and sent tumbling. The front-heavy car then proceeded to a fancy 180-degree spin, which allowed Julep to see the animal scamper to the roadside before collapsing.
Tire marks artfully explained the situation as one looked across the road as Julep was doing, sitting on the curb Indian-style, still rocking back and forth weeping quietly. The girl next-door trots over along with two passengers from another offending vehicle. The animal is now trying focus on the smelly noisy blurs all around him as the guilty parties form a perimeter. His oversized paws indicate to Julep that he is still quite young which makes her even more upset.
"Hey are you gonna be okay?” the girl from next door asks in an elf-like tone.
Julep gurgles.
The other two canine assailants assess the scene. One is an obviously sexually frustrated animal lover with a bad case of full-frontal confidence. She does however, know how to approach the animal. Her friend, a rotund Latina (currently a mother of two) is smiling and soothing to all parties. After a while, officer Nice arrives at the previous request of the girl next door. Seeing that no one but a dog is hurt, he walks uselessly back to his cruiser after looking at Julep with a bit of chalant contempt.

-

"This sucks. Its so fucking white." Xiola peels pieces off of her fried burrito, or rather, what is supposed to be a burrito-esque food object. "What a rip-off" she spurts.
Julep looks at her, swinging her bobbed hair around like a bitch in a shampoo commercial. "What a beggar with a stick. Cunt." Smirk.
The girls get a bit rowdy on burrito nite.
"Oh crap,"... food tumbles and dangles from Julep's mouth.
"What?!"..."What?!" Xiola's query is momentarily fruitless.
Julep's eyebrows do this thing where they turn up in the middle and the corners of her mouth turn down and Xiola sighs because it makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up and...well, lets save that bit for later.
"Pork."
Xiola=confused.
"Beef. Something. Ugh. I ordered a veggie burrito. God dammit." She slops the food onto her tray.
"Shit, you're not on another vegetarian kick are you? Jeebus Julep. You had me freaked."
"Fuck it. Lets get outta here. I need a bottle of rotten cactus with a worm in it." Then Julep gets up to pee.
On the way to the parking lot Xiola decides to let Julep drive because she doesn't know the way to the liquor store. Listening to the Lemonheads in the car seems to help the mood after a few frustrating stoplights. Xiola is looking a bit nervous. Hmmm...not sure if she is upset or just anxious. She turns, takes a deep breath, and prepares to let the truth out...
"Julep," a shaky voice says. "I know this is a weird time to bring something like this up, but there's something you oughtta know."
"Eh?"
"Well," Sigh. "I think you should know...the way I fee..."
Tires screech...
Julep finds herself rocking back and forth on the curb, an injured dog nearby.

As Julep walked into the back of the lounge, she knew that something was different about her already. The air in here was, real. The cigarette smoke, the Nag Champa, the Esquivel osmosing through the walls. She was home. Crossing the lino floor, she decides on a mint crème leatherette loveseat from which to cocktail from. She is giddy - and feels a little silly but won't show it. She bats her eyes as her Martini arrives (shaken, never ever stirred) and tries not to seem lonely. She tries to do that sexy pull-the-olive-off-the-stick thing but only succeeds at being clumsy as usual. Then, in a fit of Julep-ness, she produces a Cuban cigar (Romeo Y Julieta of course) and goes to lite it up. Her Zippo is intercepted by another from the fem that brought her drink over. A few moments later, the sweet scent of Havana fills the air, swirls out and up slowly, delicately, then is absorbed by the mojo of the lounge and made its own.
She didn't get stared at too much in this place, a nice change. Good thing its not too hard to look cool when you're smoking a cigar, it just kinda comes with it as a bonus. Sure, Julep smiles for the boys, smiles for the girls, but that's not why our little miss is here tonite. She was discovering herself, or at least trying to anyway. Martinis and Cuban cigars were as good a place as any to start. Our girl was trying to get away from, well, lets just call it 'anger management issues' she had been dealing with for the past little snippet of her life - this was really helping. This was slightly countered however, by two factors:
1. The little .45 strapped to the inside of her thigh.
2. The raging knot of PMS just inches above.
But nothing another Martini won't fix right? I am sure the waitress agreed because she produced another fine cocktail moments later.
Feeling a slight sting to the side of her forehead, she's trying to figure out what's wrong. Then, opening her eyes, she finds herself in a horrific living nightmare - a spinning, tumbling chamber with an opening to the abyss at the bottom has her trapped. No, wait...further investigation reveals a bathroom stall with a sick girl inside it.
"Oh jeezis fucking shit" she mumbles, wiping the viscous dribble from her mouth and chin. "I shouldn't haveglablackbrouf..." she interrupts herself as she begins puking again, drowning her words. Is it on her dress? Thank Goddess no - that would have been a disaster. Miss Zhenmir has learned a lesson about salty olives, 95 proof gin and cigars. "Oh no," she thinks to herself, "I don't know where I'm at..."

Indeed, she is not in the bathroom at the lounge any longer.