Friday, December 16, 2011

Fish Dance In The Maximum Fashion For Clowncraft.

When one contrives the beauty of ecstasy for the purpose of driving life to the edge of its own deriving, the grace of secular existence drops considerably in the face of crass ideologies. One cannot frame the stark understanding of that which one cannot frame the stark understanding of. Filth --concurred separately of attenuation-- becomes the draw for all corruptible dream dissension. Indubitably. But if then why the to be it, then if then if the why to be? Contrived hedonism seeks not to undermine the supple costs of penance but rather to supersede the lugubrious passion of the elders for the profit of their own being, reiterated back upon the itself through the labors of the transient. Smite not the dank recesses of migration, but instead the blighted fragrance of candidacy; for the spice of tranquil multitudes, we draw magnetism discretely for all flagrancy. 

Friday, October 21, 2011

Yes, yes it does.

For almost five minutes, Miles sat at the conference table completely slack-jawed. Then, realizing how he must have looked, he snapped his hand up to his mouth and slowly, stealthily, perched his chin on his fist, looking as thoughtful as he could manage. The man in the blue dress shirt was becoming irate.

“No! No, no, no. You can't put it on the back. Can you imagine the liability if someone who needed it didn't know it was there? Besides, we need to place it prominently for advertising.” 

The man in the yellow tie was becoming uncharacteristically animated himself, swinging his hands in increasingly violent gestures.

“That's what terms of service are for. You want to talk about liability-” He scoffed. “How about someone who uses it by accident or doesn't know what it means? We're talking litigation costs that will drive this company,” here he paused to point wildly at the table, “Into. The. Ground.”

After a brief, tense silence they both turned to look at Miles simultaneously. His shoulders crept up towards his ears. “I don't know.” He glanced at the door. “Does it really need a self-destruction button?”

Later that afternoon, after he had “gathered his things,” Miles found that he couldn't fit them all in the box they'd given him.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

nice things

“And this, this is why we cannot have nice things.”
She didn't have to be so patronizing about it. It wasn't like it was anyone's fault.
“And it's all your fault.”
Ok, so maybe it was, but it wasn't intentional.
“You have to learn how to control yourself, these outbursts are getting worse and worse and every time it happens, something breaks; something expensive.”
He stammered and started to apologize until he thought better of it. He wasn't doing anything wrong. He had a problem, and she should be supportive and helpful instead of critical and, well, bitchy. He started getting heated up again. He didn't realize until it was almost too late. He closed his eyes and murmured to himself and tried to settle down. He just needed to relax. Relaaaaax. Fine, but it'd be a hell of a lot easier if she wasn't just waiting for him to slip up so she could yell at him. He swore she loved to yell at him; it almost seemed like it was worth the cost of a vase or a lamp or a table to her, just so she had the opportunity to bust his chops. That bitch. And with that thought, he lost it, again. He burst into flames, charring a black circle onto the new carpet and setting the bedspread ablaze. She threw a bucket of water on him, and then threw the bucket at his face.

Saturday, January 22, 2011

The heat of a thousand suns.

When Joe put his laundry in the dryer, he checked his watch before setting the time. He had about an hour before he needed to be on his way, and he could very well just leave his clothes in the laundry-mat. The were hip, but not hip enough to deter theft all together. Fuck. He put his hands to his forehead and stared at the settings while he tried to figure out how he could solve this problem. Fluff, no heat; Delicates, low heat; Cotton, regular heat. They were all the usuals, except for one that looked strange. He shook his head and did a double take. No, it definitely read “ Crazy, the heat of a thousand suns.” He couldn't believe his luck, with a load this big the heat of a thousand suns was the only way for him to make it to his interview on time. He hauled his laundry in quickly and giggled, giddy with excitement he hadn't felt since the first time he'd done his laundry; the time he realized the machines don't actually fold shirts for you. He set the heat to 'crazy' and turned the switch at which point the world exploded and all sentient life was wiped off the face of the planet.

Friday, January 21, 2011

"But what about our future?"

She looked at me and her eyes sparkled, maliciously. I could see it coming from miles away, one of those awful, sappy, unanswerable, theoretical quest-
"Do you see us together 10 years from now?"
I let loose a quiet sigh, I'd lucked out. This was an easy one.
"Of course, I can see just what it'll be like." Her goddamn eyes just kept sparkling.
"We'll be sitting in our house, well, 'ours' but technically mine because you will have refused to put your name on the mortgage, but still, we'll be in 'our' house, sitting in 'our' matching recliners because Jimmy, our son, will have had an accident on the couch the night before. You'll have control of the remote because I will have already lost the use of my right arm and we both know how bad I am with my left. We'll run out of cheetos again and have another argument where you'll threaten to leave me for Keith, the second one of the day. I'll point out that he doesn't qualify for disability like I do and you'll come around. I'll look deep into your deadened eyes and think about Sasha Grey as I tell you how much I love you. You'll see through it but agree that we should probably stay together for the kids despite how miserable we are, and then we'll pass out during the Miracle Blade infomercial, the one with Chef Tony."
"Awwwwwwww," she cooed. "I didn't even think you thought about the future!"