Samuel L. Jackson Is Not a Good Name for a Rabbit
I made it my goal in life to be pretty for you so that when we met you
would want to put your mouth on mine and fill my head with your
bullshit ideas. I had worked out a life for us in the form of a
blue-collar family sitcom, complete with a gay son and a Goth daughter
and weekly misunderstandings based on the stupid things you said, and
at the end of every episode I forgave you and it felt like you learned
something though probably you didn't and just said you did so the
credits could roll.
Then when we finally met you told me you didn't like pretty girls and
the words you were saying didn't make any sense to me like they weren't
really English. I asked you to clarify and you said you liked ordinary
girls instead; girls with sallow skin and tattoos of insects on the
backs of their necks. The girl you were with when we met —
Anastasia — had cellulite on her thighs and acne between her shoulder
blades and I visualized you sitting on her back popping those zits all
night long. There were some really good-sized ones and I figured it
would take a long time. I had a clarifier/toner combo pack on the
counter in my bathroom. There was nothing whatsoever interesting about
I didn't know how I was going to fill my nights without our sitcom
family so I went to the pound, which is where I'd heard lonely people
went to pass the time. I'd planned on getting a dog but none of the
dogs looked lonely enough so I got a seventeen-pound rabbit named Larry
instead because Larry looked sufficiently melancholy. It said in
Larry's papers that his previous owners had given him up due to an out-of-state move and I promised Larry right then and there that if I ever
moved I'd take him with me because I'm not an asshole like that.
I'm an asshole in many other ways, of course. For instance, I have
really bad road rage. If you cut in front of me in the fast lane on the
freeway I'll ride your ass a hundred miles until you get the fuck over.
One time I rode this chick's ass half an hour and then when I got to my
exit I flipped her off. It felt good flipping her off for about a
second, like I'd really gotten one over on her, but then she crossed
three lanes and got off the exit behind me and that didn't feel as
good. I had to drive twice the speed limit and run a few red lights to
lose her and I don't even smoke anymore so it's not like I could light
up a cigarette after or anything.
The other night I made a sketch of you riding a camel and showed it to
Larry. Admittedly, Larry doesn't have a wide range of facial
expressions. He pretty much had the same expression on his face staring
at the sketch of you on the camel as he does when he watches me take a
piss or masturbate or eat low-carb pretzels. Which is to say, it's hard
to tell what the hell that rabbit is thinking sometimes.
I bet if I stopped exfoliating and got a tattoo of a mosquito or a
cicada on the back of my neck and wore my hair in a ponytail every time
I went to the grocery store or movies until you noticed, you'd leave
Anastasia and move in with me but then you'd want to change Larry's
name to something funny like Mr. Wiggles or Samuel L. Jackson, which is
another reason I'm glad it didn't work out between us. Samuel L.
Jackson is a stupid fucking name for a rabbit.
Elizabeth Ellen has stories in recent or upcoming issues of Lamination Colony, Quick Fiction, elimae, Dogzplot and others. Her
chapbook, Mouthfeel, will be included in Fox Force Five, a chapbook collective from Paper Hero Press, alongside work by Andrea
Kneeland, Lydia Copeland, Brandi Wells, and Suzanne Burns.
To link to this story directly: http://wigleaf.com/200904slj.htm
Detail of photo on main page courtesy
of Joshua Rappeneker.
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