Eritrea, foot fetish, pink glasses, ileo-colic reflex, cone
John was watching television the way a boorish man watches the opera. Without interest and without any understanding of what is going on around him. John didn't like the hour. It was six o'clock and every channel was diffusing news stories about places and things that were of no consequence to him. Channel six was running a piece on a dog that had saved a life the day before. Apparently this qualified as news. The World of Medicine show on channel fourteen was talking about different responses in the body. They were presently talking about the ileocolic reflex, which slightly disturbed John enough to switch the channel to the BBC. The BBC was running a documentary on one of their correspondants who had just retired. Crazy bastard. Went all over the world. Started off as a war correspondant. That's enough to fuck you up. Imagine your job: hoping some poor bastard dies so that you can capture it on film and make a story out of it. He had started out covering the conflict, four decades ago, that saw Eritrea split from Ethiopia. Not that it received much news at home.
John didn't care about Ethiopia, Eritrea or any other fucking country that ended with an a. All he cared about was himself and his self image. But he was bored. He tried to do things that would capture his own imagination. But the truth was John was not a man of imagination. He wasn't even a man of science. He had no mind of his own and the problem wa that he knew it.
He spent his days trying to make himself creative. To make himself an inovator. If he hadn't inherited a fortune from his pornographer father who speciallised in foot fetishes. He didn't even have to break any of the new indecency laws.... There's nothing naughty about feet, unless you have a foot fetish. This market had grown exponentially since the last civil war in England where many had lost their feet steping on small scale land mines. Everyone became obsessed with feet, especially beautiful feet. They didn't even have to be in sexually explicit situations.
John got up from his chair, in front of the TV. He didn't care about Winston Lavigne (for that was the name of the correspondant). He wasn't feeling well. He got headaches front watching TV because TV was such a bore to him. He would have gotten headaches watching paint dry. He was bored and there was no solution to his boredom. Except perhaps one, that he wasn't sure he wanted to attempt.
He thought a bit, which only hurt his head even more. Finally he decided to end it all. He opened a box with three objects in it. The first were a pair of pink glasses, made out of plastic that once apon a time, when he was extremely young a girl had given to him. It was the only person that John had managed to care about, and now he didn't know where she was. This brought tears to his eyes since it was the only object he loved so much. The only object he was able to care about. The second was a large cone, from a huge sequoia-like tree he had seen in California when he was nine. It had fallen from the tree and hit him over the head. Since then he couldn't feel anything but indifference. The cone was the only object he could hate. The only object he detested. These two objects made up the only things that mattered, one of love and one of hate. The third object, lying between the two in the box was a revolver that he had to use, when the cone won it over the pair of glasses.
Next ?
agape, grease, filibuster, sugar-free, blasphemy
John was watching television the way a boorish man watches the opera. Without interest and without any understanding of what is going on around him. John didn't like the hour. It was six o'clock and every channel was diffusing news stories about places and things that were of no consequence to him. Channel six was running a piece on a dog that had saved a life the day before. Apparently this qualified as news. The World of Medicine show on channel fourteen was talking about different responses in the body. They were presently talking about the ileocolic reflex, which slightly disturbed John enough to switch the channel to the BBC. The BBC was running a documentary on one of their correspondants who had just retired. Crazy bastard. Went all over the world. Started off as a war correspondant. That's enough to fuck you up. Imagine your job: hoping some poor bastard dies so that you can capture it on film and make a story out of it. He had started out covering the conflict, four decades ago, that saw Eritrea split from Ethiopia. Not that it received much news at home.
John didn't care about Ethiopia, Eritrea or any other fucking country that ended with an a. All he cared about was himself and his self image. But he was bored. He tried to do things that would capture his own imagination. But the truth was John was not a man of imagination. He wasn't even a man of science. He had no mind of his own and the problem wa that he knew it.
He spent his days trying to make himself creative. To make himself an inovator. If he hadn't inherited a fortune from his pornographer father who speciallised in foot fetishes. He didn't even have to break any of the new indecency laws.... There's nothing naughty about feet, unless you have a foot fetish. This market had grown exponentially since the last civil war in England where many had lost their feet steping on small scale land mines. Everyone became obsessed with feet, especially beautiful feet. They didn't even have to be in sexually explicit situations.
John got up from his chair, in front of the TV. He didn't care about Winston Lavigne (for that was the name of the correspondant). He wasn't feeling well. He got headaches front watching TV because TV was such a bore to him. He would have gotten headaches watching paint dry. He was bored and there was no solution to his boredom. Except perhaps one, that he wasn't sure he wanted to attempt.
He thought a bit, which only hurt his head even more. Finally he decided to end it all. He opened a box with three objects in it. The first were a pair of pink glasses, made out of plastic that once apon a time, when he was extremely young a girl had given to him. It was the only person that John had managed to care about, and now he didn't know where she was. This brought tears to his eyes since it was the only object he loved so much. The only object he was able to care about. The second was a large cone, from a huge sequoia-like tree he had seen in California when he was nine. It had fallen from the tree and hit him over the head. Since then he couldn't feel anything but indifference. The cone was the only object he could hate. The only object he detested. These two objects made up the only things that mattered, one of love and one of hate. The third object, lying between the two in the box was a revolver that he had to use, when the cone won it over the pair of glasses.
Next ?
agape, grease, filibuster, sugar-free, blasphemy
posted by diemmen at 9:47 AM
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