Ictor and His Stilettos
Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Saturday, July 24, 2010 5:46 PM
Many years after what might be called to a suburban-grown mother, a "childhood", Ictor went to college. This college, contrary to popular belief, was not a college at all, but a small newly opened ice-cream parlor downtown named "Boston University." You would instantly be led to wonder why anyone could mistake such a place for an actual University, except for when it is explained how inconvenient the job application is. It also helps to know that his mother was baking an apple pie with real pies mixed into the apples and a crust that could melt hunger, when a radio ad came on for the opening of "Boston University." Ictor's mother, Gwenevieveivenewg, who we will from now on call "Ictor's mother", mistook the ad for a recruiting and instantly printed off the transcripts required for "admittance."
Needless to say He got the job. Then His mother became so excited that she tweeted the news! Then to make sure that people understood the importance of the message she followed up with a second tweet. Then just to make sure that she was sure, She tweeted again, and again, and again, and again. She tweeted so many times, in fact, that Twitter ran out of server space and she was permanently banned from the world wide web as a whole. And as soon as this incident was blogged, hundreds of attention-starved teens found what they call "a pretty neat prank idea". We'll end by saying that Myspace is frightened and Facebook now has emerging stress lines.
Ictor's first day at work was extremely boredinary. Six hours of scooping and stirring for little ingrates whose entire goal in life is to annoy one man to the point of ulcer development and subsequently pulling out the ulcers and eating them in order to "take his mind off the current situation." What Ictor failed to consciously, subconsciously, and Unconsciously notice is that in the dark, damp, boring places of the earth are where crazed geniuses grow the best.
This particular night, Ictor was becoming increasingly irritated as the long hours stopped being hours and not actually existing at all. You seem confused, let me try to explain. Just imagine working for six hours straight. It's long, it's boring, you're scraping at the edges of ice cream buckets that are placed from you at an extremely awkward distance. Now imagine how much longer that would feel if the entire concept of time vanished and you were stuck working at an ice cream store with a large empty void where the clock used to stare at you while at the same time a test scoop of ice cream literally freezing your brain ever since that putrid child threw it at your cochlea. It was a very, very long time. "MAX!" screamed Max and threw another test scoop of ice cream.
However, even all non-existent hours must come to an end, and it was time for Ictor to return to his "dormitory," which was actually a small apartment right next to the subway system, yes, the underground one. On his way to his apartment, He verbally wondered, "how come nobody seems to know how to contact the academic advisors or how to get onto the Dean's List for that matter?" Nobody heard these questions, not even a mouse. He would have persisted on thinking of these inexplicable anomalies if he hadn't, in that moment, realized that his socks did not quite match the color of his shoes. What bothered him most about the clashing colors was the fact that it bothered him at all. He quietly shook the thought off and then kicked it into the nearby rose bush, willing that thought never to return.
Ictor did not sleep well that night, ironically, the only one that did sleep quite wonderfully that would be Steve, the insomniac hamster. Ictor did not sleep well because his famous nightmares began again. They started out, more or less, harmlessly. His first dream was just a few tailoring mends to a leather jacket. Then it led to the trying on of different outfits. Sometimes there would be a segue into the vestment of several outfits throughout the course of the day. He told no one of his dreams, especially not himself. He tried to hide, he tried to run, then the nightmares just exploded! Afghans, ribbons, flowers. Paisley and plaid. Stitching, sewing, hemming it up a tad. He began to transfer this new fixation to the real world, being critical of everyone. He was trapped in a passion for fashion.If Ictor could cry, he would in this moment more than any others. The most he could work up was a very sub-par sniffle. It would have to do. Comfort would not be found and Ictor had absolutely no clue as to what the next "step" was. "It can only go down from here," he mused.
Ictor found no solace being alone, less being with others, even less with both, and much less hanging out with his father's urn. It seemed like a hopelessly lost cause, just like the "LEAVE BRITTNEY ALONE," charity fundraiser. He found no solace with his pumps, his penny-loafers, nor his high-tops. There was no peace to be found with his Derby, Go-go, nor Wellington boots. Clearly no tranquility trying on his galoshes, his pampooties, and not even his Abarkas. Despair grew as each shoe was tried on. What once provided such pacification now seemed meaningless crafted pieces of meanings. That was, at least, until he saw them. The Thems. Staring delightfully into Ictor's soul, simultaneously washing over him were the feelings of an epileptic seizure and a calm reassurance that "everything is going to be just fine." They kept staring, up until the point that he placed them over his callused feet, Ictor cringed. He immediately grew emotionally attatched with these beautifully Milan crafted 7" stilettos from last years fall line-up. After placing on His stilettos, He gained what one might call, "superpowers." The superpowers inherited by Ictor were the ability to scoop ice-cream debatably seconds faster than any co-worker within a five mile radius and a slightly more reliable job security at "Boston University," .
To this day Ictor "struts his stuff" with his 7s who he has named after his favorite musical group, "Motley" and "Crue." He became Ictor and His stilettos.
Ensnaringly,
Kyle
*Startling for runway shows as he tamed the worms to increase the length of the dress in the process of the models doing what they do best on the runway: walking and also staring off into various corners of the room apparently trying to win a staring contest with the stucco. They then become instantly distracted into another corner of the room by a soundless *BANG* that only they seem to hear and then casually turn around, flip a scarf or two over their shoulders and walk back up the runway.
Funny. I love how you used a picture of one of the dancers on my FAVORITE dance crew (the asian at the bottom is on Quest Crew).