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witness/victimJan 12 '04 Write an essay on this topic.
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He wished he wasn't so irritable. The coffee was weak. Coffee is supposed to grab you, shake you, and get you awake and trembling in five minutes. This was the equivalent of a wine cooler when he needed a stiff shot of Old Grandad. The coffee was bad, the bathroom worse. He locked onto a cross stitch that carefully said, through thread art, "If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down." Damn hippies. It was time to get the hell out of dodge. The irony of the styrofoam cup wasn't lost on him. Typical. The drive to the bookstore gave him time to list all the things that were annoying him. Some were transitory, like the shirt the woman driving next to him was wearing. Others wore down his soul. Madonna's english accent. People thinking Saturday Night Live is funny. White people that like rap "with a positive social message." These got to him more than the bigger, social irritations, like a culture that is willing to lose all the jobs in the country to save thirty-eight cents on a piece of junk at Wal-mart. A president that lies but is somehow more esteemed than an ex-pres that got his tuber horked. He thought, as he lit his cigarette, "I'd move to Canada, if it weren't for all those damn Canadians in it." Mentally, it was shaping up to be a fine day. ------ She called herself his "witness/victim". It was hard to guess what each day would bring, except an onslaught. He might say, "hey, wanna see my back?" and expose a half inch of his back to her. It might be some vague hand gesture that left itself open to perverse insinuation. It could be disgusting, like a mouthful of toothpaste exposed, or a licked chip put back in the bag. Sometimes it was flat out scary. An attempted bite out of bubblewrap or a knife licked clean an put back innocently next to the pie. It was tiring. Why did he pick her, she wondered. ----- The irritations disappeared when she was around. There was an excitement to running around like Mr. Bean wacked on e and crystal meth. Imagine her reaction to my new, horrible perm, he chuckled to himself. He then got irritated at typing chuckled. ----- "Maybe you need to start writing again." She encouraged. "I am, right now, actually. Maybe it will help." "Why don't you write it in first person, and get on your soapbox? You know you feel better when you preach." "Okay, I'll try that." ----- Well, maybe I never really recovered from the surgery. I don't know what it is, but the irritation never really leaves, unless it gets replaced by anxiety. I look back at the buddhist peace I once felt and it feels like I am looking at a stranger. The world feels like it is full of strangers. Nobody really seems to care too much about the direction this country is headed. They can't be bothered. There is always another sale, another show to watch. It doesn't matter if it is entertaining. Just give us something to talk about at work tomorrow. "Can you beee-leeeeve what Chandler said?!" Who cares if Vlasic went bankrupt? I got me a whole jar of pickles for under three bucks! If I can save twelve cents on an Etch-a-Sketch, why should I care that they closed the factory and moved to china? I saved twelve cents!!! We live in big ugly houses driving big ugly vehicles watching big ugly movies drinking big ugly drinks that we work and work and work for. We get the kids videogames and movies so they will shut up and let us rest when we get home tired from all the work and try to watch ER. Who cares if the teens are all having three-ways and the good girls are now technical virgins? We have to work to buy more junk on sale. Imagine how funny "Night at the Roxbury" will be on the projection teevee with dolby surround sound. Anything to drown out the sense that nothing really means much to anyone anymore. ----------- "Okay, I did it. I murdered my admittedly weak structure, but at least I am writing." "Good. Maybe you will chill out." "Watch this... Dare me to cut my eyelashes off?" She was the witness/victim. It never ended.  |
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