Here's the finished, revised version of the Waken story I posted a few weeks ago.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Issues
I think you're an idiot.
I think you should shut the fuck up, how about that?
I think you don't want to listen to the truth.
I think you're trying to sabotage me.
I think you're being overly defensive for something you claim to be confident about.
I think you think you're a goddamn psychologist.
I think-
I still think you should just shut the fuck up!
Fine. Don't blame me when everything goes to hell. As usual.
... God damn it. Why are you always like this?
Because you're an idiot.
Fuck you.
I think you should shut the fuck up, how about that?
I think you don't want to listen to the truth.
I think you're trying to sabotage me.
I think you're being overly defensive for something you claim to be confident about.
I think you think you're a goddamn psychologist.
I think-
I still think you should just shut the fuck up!
Fine. Don't blame me when everything goes to hell. As usual.
... God damn it. Why are you always like this?
Because you're an idiot.
Fuck you.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Of all the Words of Mice and Men...
I'm sitting next to the most beautiful woman in the world. I glance at her.
I love you, I suddenly say. She's struck by the abruptness of it, as am I. It just slipped out of nowhere, out of my unmind, but it begins an avalanche of pent-up word that don't stop tumbling out of my mouth.
I've always loved you, from the day we met, even though I didn't realize it then. I feel something, something I can't describe every time I see you. When you smile it is the warm sun breaking through the ice in my heart shining your light in places I'd forgetten were even there.
She's smiling now.
Everything about you fascinates me, I continue, from the way you wear your hair, to how you walk, the way I can always hear you think about what you say before you say it, the perfume you wear, the almost-snorting laughter that fills the room. I want to be with you, now and forever. I've come to know you and you know me and I know this is presumptuous to ask but if you could find a spot in your kind heart to-
She cuts me off with a finger pressed against my lips, just the softest touch. She's smiling. She nods slowly and then leans toward me. We kiss and it is perfect, and everything is perfect; I've never been happier and I could die content right now at this very moment but better still than this perfect moment I can see stretching out ahead of us a lifetime filled with these perfect moments and there's nothing to hold us back from our dreams and I take your hand in mine and smile more completely than I ever have before and-
"Yes?"
"Hm?"
"It's just, you've been looking at me. You need something?"
"No... Nothing. Sorry."
I love you, I suddenly say. She's struck by the abruptness of it, as am I. It just slipped out of nowhere, out of my unmind, but it begins an avalanche of pent-up word that don't stop tumbling out of my mouth.
I've always loved you, from the day we met, even though I didn't realize it then. I feel something, something I can't describe every time I see you. When you smile it is the warm sun breaking through the ice in my heart shining your light in places I'd forgetten were even there.
She's smiling now.
Everything about you fascinates me, I continue, from the way you wear your hair, to how you walk, the way I can always hear you think about what you say before you say it, the perfume you wear, the almost-snorting laughter that fills the room. I want to be with you, now and forever. I've come to know you and you know me and I know this is presumptuous to ask but if you could find a spot in your kind heart to-
She cuts me off with a finger pressed against my lips, just the softest touch. She's smiling. She nods slowly and then leans toward me. We kiss and it is perfect, and everything is perfect; I've never been happier and I could die content right now at this very moment but better still than this perfect moment I can see stretching out ahead of us a lifetime filled with these perfect moments and there's nothing to hold us back from our dreams and I take your hand in mine and smile more completely than I ever have before and-
"Yes?"
"Hm?"
"It's just, you've been looking at me. You need something?"
"No... Nothing. Sorry."
McChunk
I'd like an extra-size McChunky's combo with barbecue sauce to go please.
Yes, barbecue sauce.
Look, I know, firstly, that you have barbecue sauce, because you offer it as an option with the chicken strips. I know secondly that this barbecue sauce is free with paid order, because it doesn't cost extra when it comes with said chicken strips. Therefore I can conclude that you have an ample supply of babecue sauce, and I would like some on my burger! Q.E.D.
... Do I need to draw you a flowchart? Don't think I won't do it.
I don't care that you think it's weird, it's what I want!
Look, I am the customer. I pay your slave wages! The very absolute least you can do for me is pretend that you won't screw up my damn order!
Thank you. I am honored to be able to pay seven bucks for the priviledge of dealing with people like you to eat my heart-attack-inducer of choice.
Because it is a damn tasty burger is why.
Yes, barbecue sauce.
Look, I know, firstly, that you have barbecue sauce, because you offer it as an option with the chicken strips. I know secondly that this barbecue sauce is free with paid order, because it doesn't cost extra when it comes with said chicken strips. Therefore I can conclude that you have an ample supply of babecue sauce, and I would like some on my burger! Q.E.D.
... Do I need to draw you a flowchart? Don't think I won't do it.
I don't care that you think it's weird, it's what I want!
Look, I am the customer. I pay your slave wages! The very absolute least you can do for me is pretend that you won't screw up my damn order!
Thank you. I am honored to be able to pay seven bucks for the priviledge of dealing with people like you to eat my heart-attack-inducer of choice.
Because it is a damn tasty burger is why.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Tick
Goddammit, why's the damn lightswitch on again? Dammit woman you are KILLING THE EARTH. More importantly, I have to pay for all the damn electricity it uses. I flick it off. Then walk around the entire damn house and turn off every damn electric-sucking THING we own. Why do we even have all this damn hardware? Why's the hall light on, nobody's in here. Turn it off. Why's the TV on, ain't nobody watching the damn thing. Turn it off. Why's the kitchen light on, it's three-thirty, noone's makin' nothin'. Turn it off. ... I guess I better leave the fridge on... But why's the damn stovelight on? Dammit woman you don't need this much light! It's still light outside, the windows're still workin', and your eyes ain't THAT bad yet.
Oh What's all this ruckus? Dammit woman I will tell you what this ruckus is; it's you leavin' all the damn lights on again and again- don't give me that Oh but it's Energy-star non-sense. You know that's just a marketing ploy. No I do not think Every damn thing is a marketing ploy, but dammit woman who measures this- oh I KNOW your name isn't Woman but dammit woman- alright you know what FINE I'm going out for a smoke.
Dammitall. One o'these days I'm-a hide all the damn lightbulbs see who can't find a damn thing. No I don't care if that'll show'er, it'll be damn funny 'swhat. Oh don't YOU start on me now...
Oh What's all this ruckus? Dammit woman I will tell you what this ruckus is; it's you leavin' all the damn lights on again and again- don't give me that Oh but it's Energy-star non-sense. You know that's just a marketing ploy. No I do not think Every damn thing is a marketing ploy, but dammit woman who measures this- oh I KNOW your name isn't Woman but dammit woman- alright you know what FINE I'm going out for a smoke.
Dammitall. One o'these days I'm-a hide all the damn lightbulbs see who can't find a damn thing. No I don't care if that'll show'er, it'll be damn funny 'swhat. Oh don't YOU start on me now...
Six word stories
Man dies alone; son spends inheritence.
"Don't worry; drink, smoke, you're dying."
"But-" "Do it now! ... Oh God-"
Homeless man, dead, passed by.
Give man a fish, then backstab.
I've fallen, and won't get up.
Have Kindle, will travel... Need food.
"Don't worry; drink, smoke, you're dying."
"But-" "Do it now! ... Oh God-"
Homeless man, dead, passed by.
Give man a fish, then backstab.
I've fallen, and won't get up.
Have Kindle, will travel... Need food.
Waken
She turned over in her sleep, and the noise of it woke me from my halfsleep. How long had I been out? I checked my watch; half an hour. Thirty minutes longer than I should've been gone. I rubbed my sleepy eyes with my left hand, the right still around the rifle in my lap. I glanced up at her sleeping form, sprawled on my bed. She was the porcelain angel from a Christmas tree given flesh, so pristine she looked. The edges of her shape set apart from the dreariness of her surroundings.
She moved slightly. A low moan escaped her lips. Bad dreams. She whispered for her papa. An inaudible sigh from deep in my chest. She was safe for now, that I could take solace in.
The door knocked.
I rise from the chair and silently creep to the door. Gun in my hands, I took a quick look through the peephole. I see three men in dark suits I don't know, and answer the door. A bullet bursts outside just slower than sound. I hear one of the men hit the hallway floor. No following noise confirms the kill. The remaining give me an answer of their own, and dozens of gunshots perforate my entranceway. A place where I do not stand.
In the seconds it takes me to get back to the bedroom, she's already awake. Without a word she hopped on my back and we were out the window, out of reach.
She moved slightly. A low moan escaped her lips. Bad dreams. She whispered for her papa. An inaudible sigh from deep in my chest. She was safe for now, that I could take solace in.
The door knocked.
I rise from the chair and silently creep to the door. Gun in my hands, I took a quick look through the peephole. I see three men in dark suits I don't know, and answer the door. A bullet bursts outside just slower than sound. I hear one of the men hit the hallway floor. No following noise confirms the kill. The remaining give me an answer of their own, and dozens of gunshots perforate my entranceway. A place where I do not stand.
In the seconds it takes me to get back to the bedroom, she's already awake. Without a word she hopped on my back and we were out the window, out of reach.
Routing
It had been eighty years since the formation of the Galactic Congress. It was a stupid, egocentric name. We only had around a dozen colonies, and the span of our emprie was less than a thousand parsecs, but the name polled well and we've got "big plans" to cover more. I didn't really care too much about interstellar politics - or politics in general for that matter - but the Congress paved the way for new, necessary advances in technology.
They made a faster-than-light Internet.
It was pretty much necessary, really, what with there being dozens of lightyears between the closest of worlds. Conventional communications would have decades of lag between sent and received messages, and interplanetary relations would invariably fall into an amusing aside; a facade kept up by people trying to look good. And to a degree, that's what Galactic Congress was. For the most part, people paid more attention to their local, planetary governments. It was similar to the pre-World War III United Nations. But this is getting off-topic.
To make communications feasible, a network was set up. It was similar to the Wide Area Network setup of the first public Internet, that there were redundant connections along an ultrafast backbone of routers that connected, in turn, everything else. These routers, however, weren't connected to each other with cables. They were connected with pairs of entangled particles.
I'm not a physicist, but the gist of it is this: a pair of particles are made that reflect - instantaneously - what the other is doing - without regard to the distance between them. This means I can send packets of information out to Andromeda just as quickly as I could across the room! Or at least, I could if I had a connection to Andromeda. Each of these connections is a quantum bit (qubit) that can be read by either router. Because they change instantaneously across space, this means that the only limit on data transfer speeds is how quickly the qubits can be processed by the routers.
I think I've downloaded the entire Internet. Twice. Because I can.
They made a faster-than-light Internet.
It was pretty much necessary, really, what with there being dozens of lightyears between the closest of worlds. Conventional communications would have decades of lag between sent and received messages, and interplanetary relations would invariably fall into an amusing aside; a facade kept up by people trying to look good. And to a degree, that's what Galactic Congress was. For the most part, people paid more attention to their local, planetary governments. It was similar to the pre-World War III United Nations. But this is getting off-topic.
To make communications feasible, a network was set up. It was similar to the Wide Area Network setup of the first public Internet, that there were redundant connections along an ultrafast backbone of routers that connected, in turn, everything else. These routers, however, weren't connected to each other with cables. They were connected with pairs of entangled particles.
I'm not a physicist, but the gist of it is this: a pair of particles are made that reflect - instantaneously - what the other is doing - without regard to the distance between them. This means I can send packets of information out to Andromeda just as quickly as I could across the room! Or at least, I could if I had a connection to Andromeda. Each of these connections is a quantum bit (qubit) that can be read by either router. Because they change instantaneously across space, this means that the only limit on data transfer speeds is how quickly the qubits can be processed by the routers.
I think I've downloaded the entire Internet. Twice. Because I can.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Toys
1)
He picked up the tiny man, tested the articulation of his joints. Yep, everything moved pretty well, except the left knee. Wonder if he could work that out? He moved it back and forth, back and forth. Pushed it a little furt- SNAP. Aw, he'd broken it. Oh well. He threw the little man in the pile.
The giant toddered off to find more toys.
2)
He waved the gun around, pointing it at imaginary enemies. BANG BANG, he'd cry as he shot them dead. OHH NOO, their imaginary voices cried out. BILLY WHAT ARE YOU DOING the man yelled at his son. THAT ISN'T A-
BANG then gun screamed back, cutting him off. Billy wasn't sure he did it right; daddy hadn't cried out anything after. He checked again on mommy.
3)
"Back in my day, we didn't have any of these new-fangled FANCY game machines"
"Oh for the love of-"
"You kids have it soooo gooood-"
"You OLD MAN. Do NOT start with this again!"
"Noooow you listen to me; when I was a kid, Mario was TWO-D. TWO. There were four buttons on the controller, and Select still did something"
"You're like three months older-"
"AAAAND, we didn't have time for fancy 'health meters' or whateveritis you kids call'em; one hit or miss-step took you straight back to the start of the level!"
"I hate you."
"And saving the game! Wheeew, don't even get me STARTED on passwords-"
"I WON'T!"
He picked up the tiny man, tested the articulation of his joints. Yep, everything moved pretty well, except the left knee. Wonder if he could work that out? He moved it back and forth, back and forth. Pushed it a little furt- SNAP. Aw, he'd broken it. Oh well. He threw the little man in the pile.
The giant toddered off to find more toys.
2)
He waved the gun around, pointing it at imaginary enemies. BANG BANG, he'd cry as he shot them dead. OHH NOO, their imaginary voices cried out. BILLY WHAT ARE YOU DOING the man yelled at his son. THAT ISN'T A-
BANG then gun screamed back, cutting him off. Billy wasn't sure he did it right; daddy hadn't cried out anything after. He checked again on mommy.
3)
"Back in my day, we didn't have any of these new-fangled FANCY game machines"
"Oh for the love of-"
"You kids have it soooo gooood-"
"You OLD MAN. Do NOT start with this again!"
"Noooow you listen to me; when I was a kid, Mario was TWO-D. TWO. There were four buttons on the controller, and Select still did something"
"You're like three months older-"
"AAAAND, we didn't have time for fancy 'health meters' or whateveritis you kids call'em; one hit or miss-step took you straight back to the start of the level!"
"I hate you."
"And saving the game! Wheeew, don't even get me STARTED on passwords-"
"I WON'T!"
Stranger
I met someone strange recently. I think she was an alien, but then again I've been playing and thinking about Mass Effect so much that I'm not quite sure whether my head's really on straight.
Okay so, for starters, she's kinda weird. Like, really really weird. Now, normally with me that's something of a plus, but in this case, she's kind of far out there. She eats celery with peanut butter on it; I mean, who does that? And she's got this funny kind of accent... wait no, that's a character from the game. Or does she have an accent? Hm. I don't remember. That probably says something about where my head's at right now.
More than that, there's something in her eyes. I don't mean like green stuff between your teeth (yeah that's been bothering me for the past few minutes, sorry. Would you mind picking it out? I'D do it but something tells me that'd be awkward. Thanks. Little left... Okay, got it, fantastic), but more like a sparkle. Like staring at the sun, only you don't need sunglasses, except you DO, because her eyes are so intense it looks like she's staring at the back of your head and she can see right down to the dirty innermost thoughts you're having and you just want to scream but -
Crap, I think I'm in love. Or suffering from heatstroke but I haven't been outside in a week and right now it's freezing out there. So, love. With an alien. Or someone I think is an alien. Or someone who I had a dream about meeting or something, I don't know anymore.
No wait, I definitely met her because she's in my phone. And there's pictures on my desk. Oh, right, she IS an alien. Forgot that the whole eye thing was because there were three of them, each as big as my fist. I know I have small hands but still, that's pretty big. And apparently she's got this chitinous exoskeleton. Huh. Don't know how I missed that. Might've been busy thinking about Mass Effect...
Oh well. I care more about what's inside anyway.
Okay so, for starters, she's kinda weird. Like, really really weird. Now, normally with me that's something of a plus, but in this case, she's kind of far out there. She eats celery with peanut butter on it; I mean, who does that? And she's got this funny kind of accent... wait no, that's a character from the game. Or does she have an accent? Hm. I don't remember. That probably says something about where my head's at right now.
More than that, there's something in her eyes. I don't mean like green stuff between your teeth (yeah that's been bothering me for the past few minutes, sorry. Would you mind picking it out? I'D do it but something tells me that'd be awkward. Thanks. Little left... Okay, got it, fantastic), but more like a sparkle. Like staring at the sun, only you don't need sunglasses, except you DO, because her eyes are so intense it looks like she's staring at the back of your head and she can see right down to the dirty innermost thoughts you're having and you just want to scream but -
Crap, I think I'm in love. Or suffering from heatstroke but I haven't been outside in a week and right now it's freezing out there. So, love. With an alien. Or someone I think is an alien. Or someone who I had a dream about meeting or something, I don't know anymore.
No wait, I definitely met her because she's in my phone. And there's pictures on my desk. Oh, right, she IS an alien. Forgot that the whole eye thing was because there were three of them, each as big as my fist. I know I have small hands but still, that's pretty big. And apparently she's got this chitinous exoskeleton. Huh. Don't know how I missed that. Might've been busy thinking about Mass Effect...
Oh well. I care more about what's inside anyway.
Playing
In a garden watered with my Hideous self-doubt, a black rose grows shows its nose about the place space waste waste such a bloody waste this hideous thing, this mockery, is. It looks like the smell of feet and gives off the color of a dying cat's wail. It perforates the ground with no respect for borders sense reason rationale comfort contortionism or personal space. It is all my memories of childhood abuse stuffed into a little box of a man then turned inside out in a torrential outburst of relentless self-destruction bleeding out from every pore this this this THING I find myself staring at. It hangs over my head like a dirtied burrito rubbed on an open sore festering pustulating granulating decay into every Fibre of my Being it taunts me so. Relentlessly does it thrust undulations of lamentation and degradation to my station in place of an overwhelming sense of rightful belongation. Capricious overarching diatribe attributes my recollection toward a forward board hoard insistful of bleakened future rotting about the seams. My intellectual condensation falls off the tips of my tongues into beads of sweat on the morning dew. A ravenous vegemite overwhelms the necessity of the self on the way to destruction and decompresses the morning channel. A lipid bilayered highway is all that stands between me and the deepest reaches of the untold unfolding universe. A drop of sand in my eye rinses out the tears for mankind's earliest ancestors and is lost forever in a mountain of self-preservation. My feet wrinkle the grass' breath as I hope for a better tomorrow. A deepfried chalice affixes noodles to my soul.
Surprise!
I was panicking.
Right there, on the stairs, I had kicked him square in the junk.
In retrospect, this was not the best of ideas. He was athletic, I was overweight. He ALREADY didn't like me. I had serious doubts about whether or not my friends would back me if it came down to a fistfight. But in my frustration I had made my bed, and now I had to sleep in it; maybe forever, depending on how badly he was gonna get back at me.
Needless to say, I was panicking.
I looked around, and saw ab-so-lutely nobody. Shit. In my panicked state, I forgot the most important rule in not getting your ass kicked: "NEVER BE ALONE." Sure enough, there he came up the stairs after me, quickly, angrily, looking for a confrontation. Shit. It had been maybe forty-five seconds and already things had gone completely to hell. Sometimes I have the worst luck.
He caught up to me and pushed me up against a bed of lockers. "What the HELL?" he yelled, presumably having just regained his breath.
I decided that honesty was the best policy. After all, how much worse could things possibly get at this point? "Well," I began, "you've only been bugging me ALL YEAR for no good reason."
"Still, I can't believe you'd kick me in the balls. What the hell?"
"And I'm sorry for that-"
"Damn right you are!"
"-but not sorry that I kicked you."
"Wh-"
"In general. I'm sorry I kicked you in the balls, but not sorry that I kicked you."
He looked at me for a minute then, like a bull considering charging. I stared back. Really, what did I have to lose?
After what felt like forty years, he let go of my shirt and walked away. He might've been shaking his head as he did, I was too busy being grateful for being alive. I knew in the back of my head that this reprieve was only temporary, and he'd be back soon with friends and they'd all kick my sorry ass and technically I'd deserve it too.
But, miraculously, I was wrong.
He never did come by a-reckoning, probably figuring that we were even at that point. Or that he should mess with people less inclined to retaliate. I walked away from the experience - for which I was grateful to do AT ALL - with an important life lesson: Sometimes solving your problems with violence works.
Right there, on the stairs, I had kicked him square in the junk.
In retrospect, this was not the best of ideas. He was athletic, I was overweight. He ALREADY didn't like me. I had serious doubts about whether or not my friends would back me if it came down to a fistfight. But in my frustration I had made my bed, and now I had to sleep in it; maybe forever, depending on how badly he was gonna get back at me.
Needless to say, I was panicking.
I looked around, and saw ab-so-lutely nobody. Shit. In my panicked state, I forgot the most important rule in not getting your ass kicked: "NEVER BE ALONE." Sure enough, there he came up the stairs after me, quickly, angrily, looking for a confrontation. Shit. It had been maybe forty-five seconds and already things had gone completely to hell. Sometimes I have the worst luck.
He caught up to me and pushed me up against a bed of lockers. "What the HELL?" he yelled, presumably having just regained his breath.
I decided that honesty was the best policy. After all, how much worse could things possibly get at this point? "Well," I began, "you've only been bugging me ALL YEAR for no good reason."
"Still, I can't believe you'd kick me in the balls. What the hell?"
"And I'm sorry for that-"
"Damn right you are!"
"-but not sorry that I kicked you."
"Wh-"
"In general. I'm sorry I kicked you in the balls, but not sorry that I kicked you."
He looked at me for a minute then, like a bull considering charging. I stared back. Really, what did I have to lose?
After what felt like forty years, he let go of my shirt and walked away. He might've been shaking his head as he did, I was too busy being grateful for being alive. I knew in the back of my head that this reprieve was only temporary, and he'd be back soon with friends and they'd all kick my sorry ass and technically I'd deserve it too.
But, miraculously, I was wrong.
He never did come by a-reckoning, probably figuring that we were even at that point. Or that he should mess with people less inclined to retaliate. I walked away from the experience - for which I was grateful to do AT ALL - with an important life lesson: Sometimes solving your problems with violence works.
Shit
"Shit!"
No one responds to my exclamation, which is good because anyone who did would be a figment of my deluded mind. No, there's nobody in the room.
Wait, there's a response. The fat lady upstairs stomps at me once. Or she fell out of her chair or something. That'd be pretty funny actually; her lying on her gargantuan behind, stublly arms pawing helplessly at the air. She'd be saying "help... I've fallen... and I can't... get up..." if she were like me (slightly unstable) and talked to nobody at times.
No, there's another stomp. So she's fine AND more than likely didn't hear me. She's just walking waddling plodding around up there, I should write some of that down. Anyway, it's ultimately a shame that she's fine, the hateful bitch. I swear she's trying to kill me. Or at least she would if she could fit through her doorway.
Anyway...
...where was I?
Oh, right. Shit! I start way too many stories with the word "shit". At first it was my brainchild; an element of pure unadulterated genius! Now though I've overused it to the point of derivativeaty. Derivativity. Derivativoracious? Screw it. It's become derivative. I need to mix things up (DAMN YOU FAT LADY QUIT WITH YOUR CEASELESS THUNDERATIONS FOR ONCE) before I get too stale.
Hm... Where to begin... Remember my training: grab the reader's attention with the first sentence...
I can do this...
"Damn..."
It was a dark and stormy night.
No one responds to my exclamation, which is good because anyone who did would be a figment of my deluded mind. No, there's nobody in the room.
Wait, there's a response. The fat lady upstairs stomps at me once. Or she fell out of her chair or something. That'd be pretty funny actually; her lying on her gargantuan behind, stublly arms pawing helplessly at the air. She'd be saying "help... I've fallen... and I can't... get up..." if she were like me (slightly unstable) and talked to nobody at times.
No, there's another stomp. So she's fine AND more than likely didn't hear me. She's just walking waddling plodding around up there, I should write some of that down. Anyway, it's ultimately a shame that she's fine, the hateful bitch. I swear she's trying to kill me. Or at least she would if she could fit through her doorway.
Anyway...
...where was I?
Oh, right. Shit! I start way too many stories with the word "shit". At first it was my brainchild; an element of pure unadulterated genius! Now though I've overused it to the point of derivativeaty. Derivativity. Derivativoracious? Screw it. It's become derivative. I need to mix things up (DAMN YOU FAT LADY QUIT WITH YOUR CEASELESS THUNDERATIONS FOR ONCE) before I get too stale.
Hm... Where to begin... Remember my training: grab the reader's attention with the first sentence...
I can do this...
"Damn..."
It was a dark and stormy night.
The Storm
"It was a dark and stormy night-"
"Like hell it was. I was THERE."
"Well, it was a little stormy."
"Yeah, maybe in our tent. Kev here ate like four bowls of chili-"
"Cheryl."
"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it wasn't that dark, and it sure as hell wasn't stormy out-"
"Cheryl."
"-I mean it's something that's always bothered me about the phrase; 'it was a dark night'. Well no shit Sherlock, it was NIGHT ferchrissakes-"
"Cheryl!"
"Right, yeah. Well, someone's got to start talking and you're just sitting there twiddling your thumbs and-"
"SO ANYWAY it was nighttime."
"Yes, yes it was."
"I had gone to the bathroom-"
"And for a while there I thought you fell in or something. You were gone for what, an hour?"
"I think, but I was only on the toilet for about half that."
"Which is still a long-ass time. Or a long ass-time."
"... Dammit Cheryl."
"What?"
"Nevermind..."
"Whaat? What did I say?"
"You know what? Screw this. I don't need this."
"Where you going?"
"Out!"
"Don't fall in a toilet again!"
"Go to hell!"
"Like hell it was. I was THERE."
"Well, it was a little stormy."
"Yeah, maybe in our tent. Kev here ate like four bowls of chili-"
"Cheryl."
"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it wasn't that dark, and it sure as hell wasn't stormy out-"
"Cheryl."
"-I mean it's something that's always bothered me about the phrase; 'it was a dark night'. Well no shit Sherlock, it was NIGHT ferchrissakes-"
"Cheryl!"
"Right, yeah. Well, someone's got to start talking and you're just sitting there twiddling your thumbs and-"
"SO ANYWAY it was nighttime."
"Yes, yes it was."
"I had gone to the bathroom-"
"And for a while there I thought you fell in or something. You were gone for what, an hour?"
"I think, but I was only on the toilet for about half that."
"Which is still a long-ass time. Or a long ass-time."
"... Dammit Cheryl."
"What?"
"Nevermind..."
"Whaat? What did I say?"
"You know what? Screw this. I don't need this."
"Where you going?"
"Out!"
"Don't fall in a toilet again!"
"Go to hell!"
On the act of Contemplation
He was waiting for a revelation to turn his life around.
It was a long time since he had started waiting, and he would wait a good deal longer. Or at least, he WOULD, if there were any justice in the universe. Pretty soon though he'd meed a woman who didn't disgust him and they'd fuck and have kids and get married and get old and die and that'd be the end of it forever.
At the moment, however, he was in something of a rut. He spent at least an hour each day doing nothing but sit around, mope, and contemplate the miserableness of his poor pathetic existence and how things came to be this way. He'd continue this increasingly-masturbatory exercise until he got hungry, had to shit, or someone bothered him.
And they always Bothered him; oh, how they bothered him. Frankly, it was ridiculous. Here he was, wallowing in his own self-constructed misery, and he had the gall to view these clearly well-adjusted people as being somehow deficient, as if he even knew what it was like not to have Problems. And of course he always let himself be plucked from his mental self-indulgence, regardless of how much it annoyed him, the self-sacrificing son-of-a-schmuck. He did it just so he could try and tell himself how he was such a "good person" that he was willing to listen to people he didn't Want to listen to, do stuff he didn't Want to do, all for the "good" of others.
Really, he had no plans. He wasn't going anywhere. He was a thirty-four year-old man caught up with adolescent issues. He refused to grow, to change. He worked a dead-end 9-to-5 job at Kinkos because he never looked for anything else. He had dropped out of college two and a half years in to his Chemical Engineering degree because of grades. This was just a few years after he declared a mental war on himself.
What had happened was, he had gotten this vague kind-of-a-feeling that he might not have been happy. So he thought about how he should be happy, how he could be happy, what happiness really was, what made people happy, how unhappy people might decieve themselves into thinking they're happy, and a whole lot of other pointless noise. The more he thought about it, the less happy he became, and in a truly unprecedented act of self-sabotage, he decided that the best way to go about fixing his happiness problem was to think more.
The really amusing part is, the part I told you about earlier, where he stops waiting? He never does find his revelation that makes everything better. He just finally - FINALLY - stops thinking about whether he's happy or not. And the best part? He never understands - or even contemplates - why he's suddenly so much happier.
It was a long time since he had started waiting, and he would wait a good deal longer. Or at least, he WOULD, if there were any justice in the universe. Pretty soon though he'd meed a woman who didn't disgust him and they'd fuck and have kids and get married and get old and die and that'd be the end of it forever.
At the moment, however, he was in something of a rut. He spent at least an hour each day doing nothing but sit around, mope, and contemplate the miserableness of his poor pathetic existence and how things came to be this way. He'd continue this increasingly-masturbatory exercise until he got hungry, had to shit, or someone bothered him.
And they always Bothered him; oh, how they bothered him. Frankly, it was ridiculous. Here he was, wallowing in his own self-constructed misery, and he had the gall to view these clearly well-adjusted people as being somehow deficient, as if he even knew what it was like not to have Problems. And of course he always let himself be plucked from his mental self-indulgence, regardless of how much it annoyed him, the self-sacrificing son-of-a-schmuck. He did it just so he could try and tell himself how he was such a "good person" that he was willing to listen to people he didn't Want to listen to, do stuff he didn't Want to do, all for the "good" of others.
Really, he had no plans. He wasn't going anywhere. He was a thirty-four year-old man caught up with adolescent issues. He refused to grow, to change. He worked a dead-end 9-to-5 job at Kinkos because he never looked for anything else. He had dropped out of college two and a half years in to his Chemical Engineering degree because of grades. This was just a few years after he declared a mental war on himself.
What had happened was, he had gotten this vague kind-of-a-feeling that he might not have been happy. So he thought about how he should be happy, how he could be happy, what happiness really was, what made people happy, how unhappy people might decieve themselves into thinking they're happy, and a whole lot of other pointless noise. The more he thought about it, the less happy he became, and in a truly unprecedented act of self-sabotage, he decided that the best way to go about fixing his happiness problem was to think more.
The really amusing part is, the part I told you about earlier, where he stops waiting? He never does find his revelation that makes everything better. He just finally - FINALLY - stops thinking about whether he's happy or not. And the best part? He never understands - or even contemplates - why he's suddenly so much happier.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Sometimes, I don't Think
I lay there, wide-eyed, battling the demons of insomnia. Turning over and over in my mind the last words she ever said to me. Never mind that they're not the most important of the words she said to me. I don't think about that. I don't think about the day she held me while I cried. I don't think about the day she told me she would always love me. I don't think of the moment when our lips touched for the briefest, most fluttering of instants. I don't think of the first time her expression changed forever, telling me how it would - could - never really work out. I don't think of the time things she said when she ripped down the foundation of my self-esteem. I don't think about the the way we used to scream at each other for hours at a time, rubbing ourselves emotionally raw. I don't think about the last time she smiled and the whole world was just me and her for hours and hours. I don't think about the way her eyes pierced my very existence when she glared.
I think about the soft music of her voice. I think about the sweetness of the scent she carried with her day-to-day. But above all, I think about the last words she had to say to me. I think about the way she said "goodbye," with sadness, hesitance, but a finality. I think about the last look she gave to me, her eyes nearly bursting, her lips bracing back her tears as she told me it was over.
When I think about all these things, I remember that it's all in the past. I think about the tears that she didn't shed that day that will one day fall if I ever should say another word to her. I think I should let her go, in my heart as well this time.
I fall asleep with a damp pillow.
I think about the soft music of her voice. I think about the sweetness of the scent she carried with her day-to-day. But above all, I think about the last words she had to say to me. I think about the way she said "goodbye," with sadness, hesitance, but a finality. I think about the last look she gave to me, her eyes nearly bursting, her lips bracing back her tears as she told me it was over.
When I think about all these things, I remember that it's all in the past. I think about the tears that she didn't shed that day that will one day fall if I ever should say another word to her. I think I should let her go, in my heart as well this time.
I fall asleep with a damp pillow.
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