Chelsea Martin

Post image for Chelsea Martin

by horrorsleazetrash on January 19, 2011

Chelsea Martin lives in Oakland, CA with her homeless boyfriend, a situation that has to be some kind of famous paradox / unsolvable math problem, and works in customer service which is really awful for someone so full of hate for other people, especially filthy hipster idiots with intentionally ugly haircuts, not that that’s relevant, but I think it’s okay, I think I can just give people coffee and it’s okay if I look sarcastic when I smile or if I say something that doesn’t make sense. I think deep down inside most people remember what it’s like to be a fourteen year old girl pretending she’s not going through puberty. I think deep down inside most people don’t remember what they’ve ordered anyway. You can see more of Chelsea’s work at jerk ethics.

Universal Themes That Anyone Can Relate To

I would not kiss Ethan goodbye after a short and poorly organized fight about my levels of insecurity and his unwillingness to give up control and my tendency to use my depression as an “angle” and his inability to remember the resolutions of our past fights.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “we can have sex when I come back.”

“I’m busy,” I said.

He’s the first person I ever loved, but of course I can make that true for someone else if need be.

I tried to write a poem about it, but it seemed too much like a poem about Adobe Photoshop’s clone stamp tool.

In my novel, the protagonist meets up with her ex-boyfriend after several years of not seeing him, and she sees that he has decided to become Hispanic in the name of fashion. His hair is slicked back and he’s wearing a kind of construction boot and has acne. They are happy to see each other, but neither one has anything planned to say. They hug and she feels a vague sadness about not keeping in touch with him or his family, who she used to feel close to. Their conversation is minimal and strained, though, because he speaks in broken English and is highly distracted by any girl in denim leggings.

“You didn’t used to be Hispanic,” the protagonist says.

“Well,” says the ex-boyfriend, “You didn’t used to be [unintelligible Spanish words].”

The protagonist feels the same panicked, guilty rush to get away from the ex-boyfriend that she felt when she broke up with him.  She knows that there is no getting away from this feeling once it has arrived, and that the most polite thing to do is get away from the situation as quickly as possible with as little confrontation as can be managed.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “But I left something at my house yesterday and I have to go see if I’m going to need it today.”

Sometimes I feel lonely from being the only occupant of my body.

I feel like I desperately want to rub something onto my genitals.

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