Slot #12

I got home at midnight on Friday and just after turning into my parking lot, I saw this:

At first I panicked, then I was all, “oh wait, I park over here” and turned left. Then I thought, “holy crap, is that whipped cream?” craning my neck to see the words. And then “Wonder what they did to get that?”

Okay that last thought wasn’t very kind but it was late and I had been kind all day long.

I searched my mind, “Slot #12, Slot #12…I have no idea who parks in Slot # 12.” I just couldn’t remember.

Regardless, I considered getting out of my car to clean it off (somehow) but then my instinct for self-preservation kicked in and stopped me, “hold it one minute...there’s either a pack of crazy bitches around here or a jealous dude who would consider my disembodied head to be the perfect addition to his street art” so I jammed out of my car and ran for the front door.

The next morning my friend came to pick me up for brunch. It was around 11 am, so I assumed the writing would be gone but I was wrong. Apparently, Slot #12 didn’t even come home last night…not good for your case Slot #12.

The words were still in tact, glistening in the sunlight. If there was a chance to do anything at all to help, it would have surely been then. But instead, I took a picture (see above) and pointed it out to my friend.

Friend: Wait, what am I looking at?
Me: Wait for it…a little closer…there, see it!
Friend: Oh, my.
Me: Yeah, right? I haven’t seen anything like that in a long time.
Friend: I am just really impressed with how neat the writing is.
Me: I know, it doesn’t seem hurried or angry. Just kind of: “Dirty. Whore. Slut. No Big Deal.”
Friend: Well, that would upset me.
Me: I know I do feel bad for her. What if we put some glitter on it? Glitter makes everything look happy! It might lessen the blow.
Friend: Let’s go to brunch.

Two days later, Matt and I were putting some summer stuff away into our storage unit near Slot #12 when we saw the *actual* Slot #12 arrive home.

Now, I hate to be judgmental but she did look a little, well, “hard”. She was wearing a black corset top, light-colored bell-bottom jeans and those really high platforms often referred to as “stripper shoes”. Her eyes were black with liner and mascara, so overall she more or less resembled a Bratz doll. Matt was silently encouraging me to talk to her by mouthing “Go on, that’s her, that’s her”, bobbing his head in her direction. I was mortified. After she went into our building I said, “What the hell are you doing? She’s probably totally embarrassed. I’m not going to talk to her about it!”

In retrospect, she might not have been embarrassed at all. God bless her, she held her head high as she got her mail and she should.

Here’s why: I am pretty sure most, if not all of us, have done something to warrant being called those names or have aroused that kind of anger in another with our actions. I could be wrong, she might be innocent of such but I don’t think Slot #12 will ever tell.



Since I couldn't add glitter in real life, I made this picture to make me feel better.