Chapter 20: Interlude

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Sometimes I like to take a little time out to assassinate my own character...for posterity. I found this writing snippet from awhile ago. FYI...the viewpoint is clearly hyperbolic; I can totally reach the counter unassisted.

During my brief life, I have been given several nicknames; Half-Pint, Webster (as in the TV character), Chalupa, Squirt, Midget, Shorty, Zelda Rubenstein, Small Fry, Munchkin, Mini-Me, One and a Half Stars, Shrimp, Short Stack, Low Rider—all of these terms have been used to describe my obvious and modest elevation of just five feet. These monikers are not inaccurate; I’m not very far from Dwarfism. It can’t be normal for people to greet me by tapping my head in lieu of the customary handshake. However, the only thing more frustrating than my rather unimpressive height is the uselessness of my sausage-like fingers—they barely fit around a soda can, and are incapable of complex movements, making knitting or lock picking out of the question. I’ve tried to reassure myself that I’ve been given other attributes, which balance out the shortcomings of my stature, but I confess, I am not entirely convinced.

If a person were to attempt to illustrate the opposite of dexterity, my picture would be conjured. I have had more injuries than some professional sports players; the lower half of my body randomly seeks emancipation from my upper body, causing bizarre accidents—most notably with plates of food (seemingly always at breast height), followed by random and inappropriate collisions between myself and a stranger’s left  buttock (unfortunately at neck height). And as it happens, it is also difficult for a shorter person with a large bosom to judge depth perception. It is the very reason why most of the crumbs from any meal end up wedged between my bust, and it is also why I always get stuck in between objects—I underestimate the clearance my ample chest requires.

Glimpsing the entire visage of my body in a full-length mirror never fails to produce an audible hiss from my mouth, and I simultaneously deduce that I must never be near any horses. Regretfully, I observe a fairly large head, a shorter-than-average torso, not a lot of junk in my trunk, chicken legs, and feet that are most alluring when covered up. As I age, my skin has become so transparent and pasty that I could be volunteered as a cadaver for an anatomy class. I should’ve capitalized on playing a Law & Order corpse; no FX makeup needed.

As for my face, I am only able to produce a few expressions—namely, one of perplexity and one of anger. I am constantly asked why I am angry, which always bewilders me. My face just won’t emote. I shy away from the camera for this very reason, as I inevitably have the same blank look on my face for every pose. Thankfully, there is one redeeming feature: My beady eyes; the Satanic twinkle,  quiet judgment, and constant survey of the world; they seek amusement, produce death if looked into for too long, and are able to reduce annoying little children and puppies to tears. For this reason, I am secretly jealous of the women who wear religious garments e.g., a Burqa.

How I wish that my bosom could deflect a bullet…that my small fingers could disentangle a small, complicated explosive; my pasty skin suddenly provides light in an otherwise darkened room, while my giant head finally guarantees me at place at MENSA’s table. Who knows? For now, I’ll have to ask the janitor for a boost up to the counter in the break room because these ramen noodles aren’t going to cook themselves.