typetrigger serial 1: stars.

if i had to:

"I'd prefer to go dancing," she says, twirling the finger on her right hand deep into her red hair, her left holding a half-eaten long john from Jimmy Oh's (where we first met), bavarian cream filling dripping onto her jeans. She looks down, squints, and grabs at napkins, picking at gobs of sugary goo.
"Dancing is generally my preference," she says.
"You never dance in your videos," I say.
"American Idols don't dance," she says, "'cept that one faggy one with the hair. I forgot his name."
When I got to JO's for my weekly bear claw I was surprised to see that it had been taken over by American Idols, but I was unaware of just how large the group was, having only watched pieces of seasons one and four. I mostly hurried to the counter, 'cause I was running late, and I was motherfuckin' jonesin' for a motherfuckin' bear claw, having given up most forms of sugar nearly two years ago after the girl I lived with told me I was so fat I should put out a craigslist ad looking for a girl that "didn't care about ever fucking someone attractive."
The only other sugar I consume is in the form of many many handles of gin.
I asked the girl at the counter why they were so crowded. I wasn't used to the place being so crowded. It's a pretty good place to have a cry in the parking lot after I'm done eating breakfast.
She told me the owner sent 'em an email letting 'em know of a new support group setting up shop at the long tall tables on the left side, near the "Jimmy Oh's! Fuck yeah, Donuts!" mural.

the ancients:

She said the end of the email was filled with hieroglyphics and the whole thing kept making references to a prophecy set forth by "the ancients," and it mostly gave her a "really weird feeling" in her "boobs and shit," like when her roommate left a copy of "Chariots of the Gods" sitting around and she read it while "totally blitzed, plus I'd eaten, like, mad fuckin' cruellers, so I was spun the fuck out on sugar. But if I don't eat 'em, Jimmy throws 'em away and then homeless people hang around the dumpster all night, and that's my thinking spot."
This was around the dozenth time I'd asked her, "A support group for what?" and she said, "American fucking Idols, dude," which was Morrisette-ironic, because right then Clay fucking Aiken tripped and threw his Orange Zest Mochachino directly onto my khakis, which I wear to try and look more professional than everyone else that works in my shitty office.

i know your secret:

He let loose with a "Oh my Stars!" alongside a perfectly pitched falsetto "I'm so sorry," elongating the so into sooooooooo like someone pulled back on his record, slowing time into nothing but Aiken. He started to say something else, but instead sniffed, like he was about to cry (I would've expected that).
"It's okay, Clay Aiken," I said. "These are just my work khakis."
But he kept sniffing, like my dog when he looks for the bones he hid in the couch, or me, when I come home and realize my dog has been stuffing bones with raw meat on them into the couch. And then he got closer, smelling faintly of hair product, bronzer, and Mango-Delicious gum.
"I can smell you," he said.
If I were to make a list of the things I'd expect Clay Aiken to say after spilling his drink on me, "I can smell you," would pry be number eight.
So likely, but not likely enough that it didn't weird me out.
"Excuse me, Clay Aiken?" I said.
"I can smell you," he said, sniffing. "You smell like one of them."
I looked at the clerk. "Do I smell?" I asked.
"Like Orange Zest Mochachino," she said.
"Is that what you're smelling, Clay Aiken?" I asked.
He stopped. Locked eyes with me. I realized I'd yet to see him blink. Like a snake. Or a robot that never blinks.
"The Stars," he says, "they know your secret."
"I do too," he says.
"Okay, seriously," I say. "Fuck you, Clay Aiken.