ride the zipper

No, not my zipper, perv. The giant iron zipper that stands and spins at the fair, a neon sentinel on the prairie summer horizon. When you're a child, it's scary. When you're grown up, it's just hard on the insides.

I'm talking (metaphorically) about the joys of contract work. Because it's my last day, for now, on the Mothership.

See, you avoid getting a real job because you know your short but tyrannical attention span would never forgive you. It would get straight to work, instead, perforating your stomach lining and beaming you fantasies you wouldn't even hint at in your blog. So you do a little of this, a little of that. You liken it to going from ride to ride at the small town fair that was the brightest and noisiest part of your adolescent summer. Even though that's a considerable stretch in terms of excitement. But if you squint, you can see a parallel.

A disfigured carnie stuffs you in a tippy cage smelling faintly of vomit. He looks at you like questionable leftovers going into a microwave. He closes the door. You wait. You get elevated and you feel good. Hey, you can see the whole fairgrounds! It's great, right? You get shaken around and it's interesting. You get shaken around some more and you feel sick. You get spun around and you scream an oscillating, nauseated scream. You get hair in your mouth. You plummet towards the earth. You see the world from a fucked-upside down perspective. Repeat.

You get off, wobbly and exhilarated.

It's amazing how as soon as they let you out, you remember the fun and forget the undignified prospect of dying amid the sleet of collective puke.

I think I'll try the ferret-toss next. Maybe I'll win a nice, big poster of Shania Twain.