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Evil Nemesis Day Prose

February 14, 2013

Happy Valentine’s Day everybody!

I know I’ve been really lacking on the blog-sphere and I apologize. I’m back in school and working like crazy on my thesis, which has reached the 200 page point. The chapter count keeps fluctuating as I realize I can’t make a whole chapter out of something, but the Chapter count is around 17-18ish. My thesis reader is being very, very understanding and I have purchased her copious amounts of consolation chocolate.

In the meanwhile, I have a Valentine prezzie for you, which is of course advocating to replace Valentine’s Day. Why I do these things I will possibly never know.

Evil Nemesis Day


Evil Nemesis Day was established in the brains of three over-active, imaginative California college students who were trying to think of an alternative to Valentine’s Day.  According to them, on February fourteenth of every year evil nemeses across the globe should exchange death threats and annoying pranks mostly consisting of solar-powered, GPS-enhanced flying ferbies, ironed on wrinkles in uniforms, select pieces of complex puzzles missing, riddles without correct answers, extreme nonsense poems, disturbingly easy science kits which were designed to not function properly by replacing the baking soda with baking powder, copious amounts of itching powder, and purposefully messing around with elaborate labeling techniques.  Upon its conception, one of the three founders began (according to Lacan’s psychoanalytic principle that she had gleaned from an introductory writing course on time travel) to retroactively re-interpret her past memories in the new present context she found herself in.
The inward search brought this college student–Rebecca by name–to a certain memory from elementary school that was so stubborn–much like the people it concerned–that it mulled itself over in her head for the rest of night and continued to be playing in the background of her mind for the rest of the week until she drank a full pint of “Sweet Dreams” hot herbal tea that successfully bounced the bugger out.  To her it had been like white noise behind the conversations with others, behind the landscapes she viewed, behind the words that she studied, behind the jasmine scent of the flowers she passed to her dorm.  She felt that if a person was to take a hot poker to her eye in a misplaced imitation of a Jedi with his or her light-saber, the memory would just spill out of her damaged socket, down her front, into the room, expand until it touched the rooms’ walls, and play out for all to see.  And what a mess it would have been for the cleaning staff.
The memory went like this: she detested him.  Heran, the stupid blonde boy at the YMCA who teased her constantly and she said was stupid in return.  He played basketball hard and tried to make it so she wouldn’t win ever and just bugged her.  But that was not the memory.  In this memory Rebecca saw the brown walls of the YMCA swim in her vision, and Heran tower above the small tables and bookcases of toys.  His straight, blonde locks, pale face, and brown eyes that literarily glitter with defiance stand before her.  She even remembers his blue windbreaker jacket and favorite red shirt hanging from his trim frame.  His whole being quivers with insolence and loathing as she says in angered syllables that he will receive his judgement in heaven.  Rebecca can almost feel her right arm come up, her pointer finger extend all the way her short height will allow, and the blood pound to her face as it did then.  She also feels the arm come down, her body spin around to leave the boy, and her slow utterance, “And it can not come soon enough.”
Was that what it was like to have an evil nemesis?



 I had never heard of Evil Nemesis Day though I knew what it was like to have an evil nemesis.  I am my own evil nemesis.  I hate to be weak yet I am.  I hate being at the mercy of somebody else yet I am.  I also despise annoying girls who think they are all that but really aren’t.
Take Rebecca for instance.  She was this little squirt at the elementary school YMCA who I knew.  I’ve lost track of her since.  Anyway, she was annoying.  All her airs with feigned cuteness and pretend goodness and obsession with animals and fairies.  She just acted adorable all the time to get attention from the adults, and only I saw right through her.  The adults–in those days almighty beings but now I know they are not all that great–were completely fooled!  And the way that she talked and blathered about her baby brother or whatever: disgusting!  But she knew her game and I knew mine.
At the time, I was so annoyed with her that I did the only logical thing and that was being annoying right back.  I beat her in every basketball game we both entered.  I’m still proud of that.  Besides, Rebecca had these high and mighty notions that she was invincible, magical, special and that was just ridiculous.  The real world didn’t work like that.  I knew it even back then: my father ignored me while I was desperate for his attention, his notice, his assurance that I was important.  
I remember once Rebecca saw my father and I’s relationship: that’s one of the times I most hated this weakness to be needed.  My dad was filling out release papers at the YMCA and I wanted to go to a baseball game with him.  “Dad, can we please go?”  No, Heran, not today.  “What about tomorrow or the next time?”  I pathetically tug of his sleeve, and I knew my eyes were imploring.  He didn’t even look up from the signature writing.  No, Heran: later.  I looked to the floor, disappointment sinking deep into my bones.  But then I looked up across the room and saw her.  She was standing there, small hazel eyes wide with wonder and, worst of all, understanding.  In one exchange between my father and I, she understood me.  Her mouth flapped open and close like a fish a couple times, the rest of her body almost atrophied with its stillness.  I glared at her, my skin practically boiling off me.  How dare she.  What right had she to know?!  I wanted to punch her in the face, but my dad grabbed my sleeve and made for the exit right then, finished with his waiver.
But even though she saw that didn’t mean she would stop being annoyed at me for annoying her.  She still despised me with almost as much gusto as I despised her.  Heck, probably still does, knowing her.  This one time I remember–she was all about theatrics what with her cute ploy and all–she…I actually don’t know that to call it.  We were fighting (verbally) about something and she was saying that I was mean, blah, blah, blah, but then: “Well, you’ll receive your judgement in heaven.”  She dramatically pointed to the ceiling with her right hand, put the appendage back down, and then twirled away to the reading section (her coping mechanism was always to go read something).  I heard her say something more, but couldn’t distinguish the words.  The next day she did mention something about heaven not being fast enough, but whatever.  At that moment I was stunned.  She was bringing heaven into this?  Like God?  I didn’t know what quixotic, weird religion Rebecca had, but you don’t say that to a person.  You just don’t.  Like Heaven had anything to do with me.


From → Fiction

  1. The Rebecca story is great! It reminds me very much of Tom Robbin’s style. I like it!

    • Thanks Dad! I wrote the story before we listened to “Ducks Flying Backward” but looking at it now it does remind me of Robbins.

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