Dressing Down
Trent England

I want to see her somewhere maybe in front of a post box or sitting on a train or bending over to get the paper and tell her to fuck off. I might see her in the park throwing crackers at the birds and say, "Don't feed the birds, and fuck off please." Nobody wants her to fuck off more than me. I dream of ways in which she will fuck off. Maybe she will be sitting in her car letting it idle while her sister in the passenger's seat in labor is oohing and oohing, and I could bend over and put my hands on the door and through the glass ask her to fuck off. I am sure many times over people in her life have told her also. I am sure that as a child she approached a parent or grandparent with some belaboring question, and they had to sweetly render a "Please fuck off, okay, will you do that?" Maybe her baby sister growing up was not always pregnant. Maybe when they were eight and nine and she asked for a quarter for ice cream, the younger sister suggested she effectively fuck off. I would even do it in the library, as breaking quiet rules is fine with me and I owe the Central branch three hundred seventy-five dollars for a rare art book I ruined with coffee. I could walk up to her standing in the history section and yell with all my grace for her to fuck off. (I spilled the coffee on purpose, also.) Before she can wake up I want to go to her house and yell at her window, just minutes before seven, to fuck off, because she looks like a seven o'clock riser. I fear she will lose interest in fucking off. There should be an incentive for her to fuck off. Maybe the newsletter will work, aptly titled Fucking Off, but I haven't written for that in years. Every column contains city-sized reasons as to why she should fuck off, and a preemptive advice column answering any questions she may have about fucking off. There are things to consider, like the before and after. To where should I fuck off? To whom should I fuck off? When should I fuck off? (Now.) Also, there are people in anyone's life who are before-fucking-off people and there are the people in anyone's life who are after-fucking-off people. I want to express to her, but I am not sure how to be as eloquent as I need to, that the after-fucking-off people in her life will be much better for her, considering I am one of her before-fucking-off people and long ago I was one of those people, like her, who eventually had to fuck off. I was living in a small town and I was told that if I didn't pay what I owed, then I would have to fuck off in a very big way, and that very big way could mean something small and painful. I made a list of small and painful things: prison cells, paring knives, pinkies. This accelerated my fucking off and I eventually ended up here where dear God more than anything in the world I need her to fuck off just fuck off. I will even go the distance to find her in a panty shop buying panties looking at pink panties purple panties red panties white panties peach panties green panties lace panties silk panties cotton panties panties with roses panties with honeysuckles panties with construction hats panties with milk bottles panties with kitties and puppies and tell her to fuck off. Finding her in any situation to tell her to fuck off now consumes me. I invent new reasons to tell her to fuck off, to repeat the other day when I fantasized about her walking into traffic and I told her to fuck off (which saved her life), and to ask if she understands what I mean when I shout daily from the street into her home.

Trent England lives in the Boston area where he writes full-time. He can be found here.

To link to this story directly: http://wigleaf.com/201103dd.htm

Detail of illustration on main page courtesy of Gomez Biggeri.

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