Imgormiel
Part of the furniture
- Joined
- Apr 18, 2004
- Messages
- 4,372
Ok, as usual, characters are fictitious. Almost the same length as the last one. Get coffee, enjoy!
My name is Simon. Simon Shaw. I was born in Seattle, America. Now I live in a place that should be called purgatory, but is known as Preston, United Kingdom to everyone else. Apparently the most depressing place on the planet – or is that place an illusion and it is everywhere on the planet? How ironic is that? They say the same thing about the place where I was born. They say the same thing about anywhere. What the fuck is that all about? Oh well...
Ahem...anyway, I’m 39, single and I browse social networking sites of any kind. Just for something to do. Just so I can reach out. Just so I can let some friends that I know that are not really there that I am. It is fair to say I feel isolated. A conversation, a get-together of people, a feeling of being interfaced. A feeling of being wanted seems as elusive as ever. Still I am looking for what society dictates as the perfect wife – whatever that is supposed to be. Dating sites... pffuh.
The internet is the bane yet also, the Eden of my life. I work as a columnist stroke Journalist for the Manchester evening news. I don’t really have any life outside of my job period. Any life I do have is spent looking outside. Outside of my window. Just in case, you are wondering. That’s not the window facing the terraced streets of Preston. It is the picture of my eyes seeing everything in motion and the music echoing the halls of life within my thoughts.
It is five thirty in the morning. Why I get up at this time of day I don’t know. Sleep seems to be like some luxury that is bought and paid for with every thought and working moment. I work in my sleep, I work when I am awake. It is Thursday. Life is one cacophony of voices, thoughts and dreams never realised. Echoing relentlessly from one person to another. Somewhere in that time I get just a little space to catch a breath for myself, to keep asking the same question every day - Why?
Breakfast for once goes without incident. The toaster decides today that it is not going to spit the slices of burnt bread like a rocket launcher out at my steel-rimmed glasses. Even the cheap bargain Sainsbury’s basics coffee tastes good as I turn on the radio to cheat on my catch up on the morning’s news before I go to work. Just to give the impression to everyone in the newsroom that I already read all of the newspapers. That I really care about my tired out job.
Today, I decided not to travel by car. I have no story for my column and no inspiration for anything of note that would be worthy of the Manchester Evening news. Taking public transport and my laptop as a handy electronic notepad might prove something to write about; assuming something newsworthy crops up and appears to be a good idea.
Traffic stories never really grab a reader’s eye, and a life story, at least with some humour gets the editor’s attention and probably my twitter followers. Sales are down, semi-colon. Any means of keeping my job during this recession is always a handy one. Period.
Suited in my casual work attire. I leave my flat at ..seven thirty.. to be part of the army of white-collar workers of the world. Clandestinely blending in with the rest of those poor key-pushing keyboard people that do nothing all day but fill in forms. Regulating the order in which we live.
Why is my bus to the train station on time today of all days. Question mark. Never mind, the bus journey is short and without people to see.
Arriving at the train station. The station’s ticket vendor seems as indifferent as ever. He does however have to compete with a machine for attention – a tough break for a tough day of boredom. God forbid anyone should strike up a conversation of any meaningful intent.
Indeed, as I get down towards the bottom of the stairs, I can see about twenty people sitting down at their open laptops. All on the same page - Face-wank. It is as if they are peering into some sort of collective glory hole before they shove orifice or phallus anywhere near it. All addicts. All illiterates – socially speaking.
Then I start to get on my tangent. The window that makes me live and breathe for what I write. That guy who said the pen was mightier than the sword is a complete gimp.
However, he didn’t have to compete with Orwell. I can’t help but have some leanings of condemnation towards him – besides that **** Orwell that is. Without this guy, we would not have this pathetic scene of a society that we have today.
The ability to communicate on a global basis, yet not have any leanings to converse with the person stood next to them, the person they love, the son or daughter that needs nurture - Or anything else that might require some sort of facial or vocal cue.
I start to think of America. I am thinking of Seattle. Most of all I think of a place that I believe should be home. I am thinking of the women there that complain that they can’t get a man because they live in such a big city that no-one has the time to meet yet everyone has the time to talk. Fuck England, fuck English women. I want a ticket home. I could make them meet me!
At least I could get some response from the people sat next to me while I wait for a train that never seems to arrive. I feel like I should drive these people away from their ‘double-fucking-speech’. Their white screen and the black pieces of fake ink in which they write their thoughts and hopes. Dreams that never become anything beyond the glory hole in which they project themselves. Exclamation mark.
That makes me so angry. I want to get hold of them comma shake the living daylights out of them, and say, ‘Do you remember your voice? Your community? Your face and what it means to people. Oh yeah, sorry that shit all happens on face-wank – Jesus.’
The nine fingers that creep. The multiple taps on keys like some never-ending cog reach out better than spider’s steps on any web. A more efficient voice than human contact. I am wondering where the lock is? I am wondering how to make it stop.
That realisation is just overwhelming. All I will be shaking is an empty unresponsive shell. A shell worse than AIDS. A cage of its own self-destructive incubus. This is so much of an opposite of opposites that even I am confused. Was Orwell a woman? I’ll edit that later.
Yet these people pay my buck. They haven’t three seconds to speak to me in person or even three seconds to know what wonder is and ask me about my life, my story, my thoughts. Yet in the past, these people would call me deep if I even spoke to them. This is why I have my job. This sense of confrontation, duality and butter-liberally-distributed nihilism spread on a slice of bread that makes even me – the hardiest of philosophers – question my sense of being, and my existence.
I snap myself out of my self-imposed stupor of thought just in time for the train doors to open, and dutifully abide towards my job. This is only a temporary state. As I wonder about the state of the rules of society for the millionth time.
What are these secret rules of society? What are they for, and who made them up anyway? As an example, smile and someone will always smile back at you. That question, hyphen, why, just never goes away.
Again, it is another of my moments of the window. That’s the other thing about the internet. Permanently testing your boundaries, enduringly blowing out other people’s agendas and ideas like a group of horn players in an orchestra. Electioneering for some impossible person that is free of all restrictions. Yet remains integral to a part of society that exists only in people’s minds – a border upon some proclivity that should be legally purveyed to strangulation. Exclamation mark.
Always standing there in the background like some Cop with a truncheon and a Taser gun intimidating people saying, ‘Smile!’ If you don’t it will Taser you and say, ‘Smile fucker’, Bzzzzzt! ‘Hahaha!! Bet that freaked you out?’ Bzzz. Colon. Bzzzt. ‘Smile motherfucker, your dad’s dead!’ ‘Ahahahahaha!’ Bzzzt. Period, period. Bzzzzzzzzzzt. Period, period, period. Bzzt. Period. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzztt. ‘Smile FUCKING GOD DAMNIT!’ Smack! Crack! Crack! - Wake up?
In the end, you have some sort of prefix-conditioned face that seems to have been moulded by Botox out of fear-ridden shameless glee. Eyes that could double-charge the lights of the Eiffel Tower at night so brightly that people need shades to look at your face. Which when faced with it, your brain is then so far removed from any sense of rationality – because of happiness. You may as well have ripped it out with a wrench.
I wonder why people even bother with cocaine when that is always looming over your shoulder. All of this in the name of freedom. If that is freedom, you can kindly shove that up your ass! Fuck George Orwell. If I could get away with putting that in bold in a newspaper, I would!
After that thought of despair. I realise that I am halfway through my train journey to Manchester. People are looking at me somewhat with a sense of confusion and possible fear. I begin to feel rather uncomfortable with myself as I can almost hear their voices.
But. Of course. That is nonsense. As all speech is via some form of keyboard-driven messenger program. All speech is a lie. It is worse than the shit I write for a living. They would all have to add me to their friends list via whatever shit they use to vent their frustration and paranoia hyphen a comforting thought. God forbid they were using VOIP – I can’t even remember the last time someone called me on my blackberry.
I notice two middle-aged women breaking the social code on the train as we near Oxford road station. They are talking. To me this seems normal, but to everyone else. Their ears are radar. Honed on their every word. Every source of information, their brains like sponges that can never hold enough water. Waiting for some sort of complex code to be broken. Perhaps this is liberty incarnate. Perhaps what these two women say will forever banish this state of non-cue contact
They are talking and laughing. One of them is looking at me and making comments. I am not within earshot of her voice. Looking from the smiles from the aisle near her from other people nearby that she has something meaningful to say. She is pretty, she is someone I’ve not seen before, yet from the way she dresses and looks after herself. I would like to meet her socially if the code of social ethics according to the government is to be met.
What the fuck is that all about? She is a pretty woman. I am semi-attracted to her. She doesn’t know it. She can’t know it. Yet it is forbidden that we even speak, as that would have some racist connotation that would impede on someone’s rights, somewhere around the world. Thus, capitulation presides and it is all done in a clean ethical manner.
That is, until I decide to sit down from the aisle and get closer. Perhaps this is the story that I am looking for, perhaps, she has something that my column deserves. Until I get wind of the fact, she is saying that perhaps, I am gay. That my life is more secret than her’s. She envies my so-called secret life, as it would not be possible for her to conduct such an overt postulation such she thinks mine is so shamelessly exhibited. She has problems, she has a boyfriend and he beats her. She obviously does not recognise my face from the newspaper.
Her black hair shines to a brown colour as the train rides through the sun. She has no idea of how beautiful she is in my eyes. And. Were it not for someone at work, I would be sat next to her faster than someone could spit shells from an AK-47 aimed in her direction. Just to prove that we do not need a heartbeat as a metaphor to prove love.
Her friend confides in her as she continues to comment that she only goes to work so that she doesn’t have to face him each day as he is unemployed and she can’t find it in her heart to get rid of him. Because she thinks, she has made him so fragile. Then, so is the rest of the world at this moment in time. He is violent, vindictive and all men should pay for his crimes – something the government advocates.
Men like him deserve castration, and worse. We pay for it also. However, this jigsaw weave, continues to go unnoticed. Undeniably shaping its course through humanity. No direction, no sense of purpose – save for the now product. Where is the shape. Question mark.
Because she is aggrieved, she can do as she wishes for five years as the penal system is now so overpopulated with deviants of every kind that it can no longer hold its forthcoming residents.
She also likes the fact that she can say what she is saying in private because no one is hearing it save her friend – everyone she thinks, is glued to their laptop waiting for updates from work even before they clock in and begin to be paid. Now there is an aside if I ever heard one, and it is not even eight fifty a fucking m.
I’ve not been to a theatre in five years since my last girlfriend was officially terminated by government approval. Things have not exactly worked out the way I wanted to, but I live with it because that’s my life. My job is my life and to expect more than that.
Hold on a minute. This shit makes me angry, apoplectic and confused. How is it that someone I could possibly like get some sort of shit message from my face? A face that was until that moment, I wanted to endear to myself. At least for that I should feel appreciated that I am even being looked at. Even in a way that makes me capitulate to something that’s abhorrent to me. I feel as though I should engage her. Remembering the way things were before government policy and things went haywire. The window opens again in my eye. What the fuck. Question and Exclamation mark.
She clutches hold of her handbag as a form of protection when I begin to lose my temper. Bitch that should be my handbag. Exclamation mark. You may have forced a way through society that you wear the balls, cock and the vagina stroke tits that the government accepts that. But fuck you! I should ram that fucking shit up your ass and the handbag to boot. Jesus, all I ask is for decent interaction and I get this? Fuck you. Fucking Orwell was a woman, period bold!
My head rushes with thoughts of my body and mind being a woman’s playground. My body reeks of something that smells of a burning electric eel. This entity imaginably has been inserted into my cock to illustrate my genes are screaming to get the hell out of this middle-aged body so much. I am perplexed into paralysis and yet aching with compliant silent convulsion.
I fixate on a few obvious things. She is still twelve in the head and has still not learned to play chess, or at least pretends not to have learned. How long it takes for dripping tears from an eye to dry. Why a baby cries even when it has been fed? All I wanted to do was just talk and see where it went – even I can’t see a straight line into the future.
Policy dictates she and everything to do with her must be erased like a dissonant of the government and the account on face-wank. I must never see her again. Again, it is why. Again, again, again. Law. Fuck it.
The train has arrived at Piccadilly. I have driven myself into a stupor of neurosis. Yet I must get ready for work, my colleagues and of course secret love of my life – Sheila – the tea lady. Calm down fucker! I realise the futility of taking the train into work. I have a story comprised of some neo-gonzo crap that if submitted. My editor would stick it to my head with blue-tac and then use me as a dartboard. I have two empty minded ***** to thank for it too.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I get off the train and head towards the backwater of Manchester city centre. I see about ten people as I leave behind the masses of non-people that spewed out of Piccadilly. The approach to work seems...eerie at best, due the quiet ghostly main streets. It reminds me of how soulless London is and why I should make no effort to go back there.
Fifteen minutes of walking bring me to the foyer of work. The security guard seems upbeat as he greets me. Perhaps the home football team won its midweek match. I do not seem to care, which is un-American of me, as we love sports to bits. However, despite his job, how boring it is, how people do not care about why he is even there. He is a statement of fact – one of only two people in here that are essentially cognisant of being alive in the building.
The newsroom is its own heartbeat and lifeblood. Nobody talks save through their fingers and the occasional phone call to check if the information submitted is indeed accurate. Paranoia is as essential to this room as water is to sustain most life.
Those first couple uneasy hours go by and the usual politicians clog my emails with press releases that show that they have been listening to the people lobbying them about their small issues in life. That he or even she actually cares enough to lie about this crap. As it would not matter among all the noise of text driven voices. Semi-colon. The other ideas I have in my email account amount that lay claim to the same meaningless nothing that today’s society calls food. It is always, quite remarkably, the same voice. Exclamation mark.
Eleven thirty arrives. As does the highlight of my day Sheila. She is unrevealingly beautiful. She goes unnoticed throughout the day as each journalist fixates on every typed word. Her tea-lady’s uniform covering all of her form. As indistinguishable as air. Yet the hidden always entices. In my point of view, that is another facet of why she is the midday sun of my life. I like this fact very much. She is almost like a piece of art in motion. I can never tell her due to red tape. It seems like some sort of sick joke of a human body turned inside out. My mouth is nothing more than a goldfish breathing air in the bowl of water in which it swims. Frustrating. Double underscore.
Serving my usual milky tea with two sugars and a bourbon biscuit. I thank her as I look at her face longingly. That face has now blossomed into a sweet rose of embarrassment. I realise that I just made a very big mistake. Her emotion is a mirror that has betrayed my love to a passing random face of examination and soon, all and sundry in the newsroom.
Sheila leaves to give other employees their refreshments. Keys tap louder through the face-wank interface as if the message itself has echoed through the Grand Canyon. People’s faces yodel at their pale white screens in glee at the crime-think that I just committed. My life is just seconds from officially being screwed unless I sort out the red tape of which binds and chains our everyday life into a committal. I am not ready yet. I am still a monomaniac. I cannot protest. Yet nonchalantly I think protest. Fuck, I hate the internet. Exclamation mark. Orwell was a whore.
__________________
Simon loves Sheila
My name is Simon. Simon Shaw. I was born in Seattle, America. Now I live in a place that should be called purgatory, but is known as Preston, United Kingdom to everyone else. Apparently the most depressing place on the planet – or is that place an illusion and it is everywhere on the planet? How ironic is that? They say the same thing about the place where I was born. They say the same thing about anywhere. What the fuck is that all about? Oh well...
Ahem...anyway, I’m 39, single and I browse social networking sites of any kind. Just for something to do. Just so I can reach out. Just so I can let some friends that I know that are not really there that I am. It is fair to say I feel isolated. A conversation, a get-together of people, a feeling of being interfaced. A feeling of being wanted seems as elusive as ever. Still I am looking for what society dictates as the perfect wife – whatever that is supposed to be. Dating sites... pffuh.
The internet is the bane yet also, the Eden of my life. I work as a columnist stroke Journalist for the Manchester evening news. I don’t really have any life outside of my job period. Any life I do have is spent looking outside. Outside of my window. Just in case, you are wondering. That’s not the window facing the terraced streets of Preston. It is the picture of my eyes seeing everything in motion and the music echoing the halls of life within my thoughts.
It is five thirty in the morning. Why I get up at this time of day I don’t know. Sleep seems to be like some luxury that is bought and paid for with every thought and working moment. I work in my sleep, I work when I am awake. It is Thursday. Life is one cacophony of voices, thoughts and dreams never realised. Echoing relentlessly from one person to another. Somewhere in that time I get just a little space to catch a breath for myself, to keep asking the same question every day - Why?
Breakfast for once goes without incident. The toaster decides today that it is not going to spit the slices of burnt bread like a rocket launcher out at my steel-rimmed glasses. Even the cheap bargain Sainsbury’s basics coffee tastes good as I turn on the radio to cheat on my catch up on the morning’s news before I go to work. Just to give the impression to everyone in the newsroom that I already read all of the newspapers. That I really care about my tired out job.
Today, I decided not to travel by car. I have no story for my column and no inspiration for anything of note that would be worthy of the Manchester Evening news. Taking public transport and my laptop as a handy electronic notepad might prove something to write about; assuming something newsworthy crops up and appears to be a good idea.
Traffic stories never really grab a reader’s eye, and a life story, at least with some humour gets the editor’s attention and probably my twitter followers. Sales are down, semi-colon. Any means of keeping my job during this recession is always a handy one. Period.
Suited in my casual work attire. I leave my flat at ..seven thirty.. to be part of the army of white-collar workers of the world. Clandestinely blending in with the rest of those poor key-pushing keyboard people that do nothing all day but fill in forms. Regulating the order in which we live.
Why is my bus to the train station on time today of all days. Question mark. Never mind, the bus journey is short and without people to see.
Arriving at the train station. The station’s ticket vendor seems as indifferent as ever. He does however have to compete with a machine for attention – a tough break for a tough day of boredom. God forbid anyone should strike up a conversation of any meaningful intent.
Indeed, as I get down towards the bottom of the stairs, I can see about twenty people sitting down at their open laptops. All on the same page - Face-wank. It is as if they are peering into some sort of collective glory hole before they shove orifice or phallus anywhere near it. All addicts. All illiterates – socially speaking.
Then I start to get on my tangent. The window that makes me live and breathe for what I write. That guy who said the pen was mightier than the sword is a complete gimp.
However, he didn’t have to compete with Orwell. I can’t help but have some leanings of condemnation towards him – besides that **** Orwell that is. Without this guy, we would not have this pathetic scene of a society that we have today.
The ability to communicate on a global basis, yet not have any leanings to converse with the person stood next to them, the person they love, the son or daughter that needs nurture - Or anything else that might require some sort of facial or vocal cue.
I start to think of America. I am thinking of Seattle. Most of all I think of a place that I believe should be home. I am thinking of the women there that complain that they can’t get a man because they live in such a big city that no-one has the time to meet yet everyone has the time to talk. Fuck England, fuck English women. I want a ticket home. I could make them meet me!
At least I could get some response from the people sat next to me while I wait for a train that never seems to arrive. I feel like I should drive these people away from their ‘double-fucking-speech’. Their white screen and the black pieces of fake ink in which they write their thoughts and hopes. Dreams that never become anything beyond the glory hole in which they project themselves. Exclamation mark.
That makes me so angry. I want to get hold of them comma shake the living daylights out of them, and say, ‘Do you remember your voice? Your community? Your face and what it means to people. Oh yeah, sorry that shit all happens on face-wank – Jesus.’
The nine fingers that creep. The multiple taps on keys like some never-ending cog reach out better than spider’s steps on any web. A more efficient voice than human contact. I am wondering where the lock is? I am wondering how to make it stop.
That realisation is just overwhelming. All I will be shaking is an empty unresponsive shell. A shell worse than AIDS. A cage of its own self-destructive incubus. This is so much of an opposite of opposites that even I am confused. Was Orwell a woman? I’ll edit that later.
Yet these people pay my buck. They haven’t three seconds to speak to me in person or even three seconds to know what wonder is and ask me about my life, my story, my thoughts. Yet in the past, these people would call me deep if I even spoke to them. This is why I have my job. This sense of confrontation, duality and butter-liberally-distributed nihilism spread on a slice of bread that makes even me – the hardiest of philosophers – question my sense of being, and my existence.
I snap myself out of my self-imposed stupor of thought just in time for the train doors to open, and dutifully abide towards my job. This is only a temporary state. As I wonder about the state of the rules of society for the millionth time.
What are these secret rules of society? What are they for, and who made them up anyway? As an example, smile and someone will always smile back at you. That question, hyphen, why, just never goes away.
Again, it is another of my moments of the window. That’s the other thing about the internet. Permanently testing your boundaries, enduringly blowing out other people’s agendas and ideas like a group of horn players in an orchestra. Electioneering for some impossible person that is free of all restrictions. Yet remains integral to a part of society that exists only in people’s minds – a border upon some proclivity that should be legally purveyed to strangulation. Exclamation mark.
Always standing there in the background like some Cop with a truncheon and a Taser gun intimidating people saying, ‘Smile!’ If you don’t it will Taser you and say, ‘Smile fucker’, Bzzzzzt! ‘Hahaha!! Bet that freaked you out?’ Bzzz. Colon. Bzzzt. ‘Smile motherfucker, your dad’s dead!’ ‘Ahahahahaha!’ Bzzzt. Period, period. Bzzzzzzzzzzt. Period, period, period. Bzzt. Period. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzztt. ‘Smile FUCKING GOD DAMNIT!’ Smack! Crack! Crack! - Wake up?
In the end, you have some sort of prefix-conditioned face that seems to have been moulded by Botox out of fear-ridden shameless glee. Eyes that could double-charge the lights of the Eiffel Tower at night so brightly that people need shades to look at your face. Which when faced with it, your brain is then so far removed from any sense of rationality – because of happiness. You may as well have ripped it out with a wrench.
I wonder why people even bother with cocaine when that is always looming over your shoulder. All of this in the name of freedom. If that is freedom, you can kindly shove that up your ass! Fuck George Orwell. If I could get away with putting that in bold in a newspaper, I would!
After that thought of despair. I realise that I am halfway through my train journey to Manchester. People are looking at me somewhat with a sense of confusion and possible fear. I begin to feel rather uncomfortable with myself as I can almost hear their voices.
But. Of course. That is nonsense. As all speech is via some form of keyboard-driven messenger program. All speech is a lie. It is worse than the shit I write for a living. They would all have to add me to their friends list via whatever shit they use to vent their frustration and paranoia hyphen a comforting thought. God forbid they were using VOIP – I can’t even remember the last time someone called me on my blackberry.
I notice two middle-aged women breaking the social code on the train as we near Oxford road station. They are talking. To me this seems normal, but to everyone else. Their ears are radar. Honed on their every word. Every source of information, their brains like sponges that can never hold enough water. Waiting for some sort of complex code to be broken. Perhaps this is liberty incarnate. Perhaps what these two women say will forever banish this state of non-cue contact
They are talking and laughing. One of them is looking at me and making comments. I am not within earshot of her voice. Looking from the smiles from the aisle near her from other people nearby that she has something meaningful to say. She is pretty, she is someone I’ve not seen before, yet from the way she dresses and looks after herself. I would like to meet her socially if the code of social ethics according to the government is to be met.
What the fuck is that all about? She is a pretty woman. I am semi-attracted to her. She doesn’t know it. She can’t know it. Yet it is forbidden that we even speak, as that would have some racist connotation that would impede on someone’s rights, somewhere around the world. Thus, capitulation presides and it is all done in a clean ethical manner.
That is, until I decide to sit down from the aisle and get closer. Perhaps this is the story that I am looking for, perhaps, she has something that my column deserves. Until I get wind of the fact, she is saying that perhaps, I am gay. That my life is more secret than her’s. She envies my so-called secret life, as it would not be possible for her to conduct such an overt postulation such she thinks mine is so shamelessly exhibited. She has problems, she has a boyfriend and he beats her. She obviously does not recognise my face from the newspaper.
Her black hair shines to a brown colour as the train rides through the sun. She has no idea of how beautiful she is in my eyes. And. Were it not for someone at work, I would be sat next to her faster than someone could spit shells from an AK-47 aimed in her direction. Just to prove that we do not need a heartbeat as a metaphor to prove love.
Her friend confides in her as she continues to comment that she only goes to work so that she doesn’t have to face him each day as he is unemployed and she can’t find it in her heart to get rid of him. Because she thinks, she has made him so fragile. Then, so is the rest of the world at this moment in time. He is violent, vindictive and all men should pay for his crimes – something the government advocates.
Men like him deserve castration, and worse. We pay for it also. However, this jigsaw weave, continues to go unnoticed. Undeniably shaping its course through humanity. No direction, no sense of purpose – save for the now product. Where is the shape. Question mark.
Because she is aggrieved, she can do as she wishes for five years as the penal system is now so overpopulated with deviants of every kind that it can no longer hold its forthcoming residents.
She also likes the fact that she can say what she is saying in private because no one is hearing it save her friend – everyone she thinks, is glued to their laptop waiting for updates from work even before they clock in and begin to be paid. Now there is an aside if I ever heard one, and it is not even eight fifty a fucking m.
I’ve not been to a theatre in five years since my last girlfriend was officially terminated by government approval. Things have not exactly worked out the way I wanted to, but I live with it because that’s my life. My job is my life and to expect more than that.
Hold on a minute. This shit makes me angry, apoplectic and confused. How is it that someone I could possibly like get some sort of shit message from my face? A face that was until that moment, I wanted to endear to myself. At least for that I should feel appreciated that I am even being looked at. Even in a way that makes me capitulate to something that’s abhorrent to me. I feel as though I should engage her. Remembering the way things were before government policy and things went haywire. The window opens again in my eye. What the fuck. Question and Exclamation mark.
She clutches hold of her handbag as a form of protection when I begin to lose my temper. Bitch that should be my handbag. Exclamation mark. You may have forced a way through society that you wear the balls, cock and the vagina stroke tits that the government accepts that. But fuck you! I should ram that fucking shit up your ass and the handbag to boot. Jesus, all I ask is for decent interaction and I get this? Fuck you. Fucking Orwell was a woman, period bold!
My head rushes with thoughts of my body and mind being a woman’s playground. My body reeks of something that smells of a burning electric eel. This entity imaginably has been inserted into my cock to illustrate my genes are screaming to get the hell out of this middle-aged body so much. I am perplexed into paralysis and yet aching with compliant silent convulsion.
I fixate on a few obvious things. She is still twelve in the head and has still not learned to play chess, or at least pretends not to have learned. How long it takes for dripping tears from an eye to dry. Why a baby cries even when it has been fed? All I wanted to do was just talk and see where it went – even I can’t see a straight line into the future.
Policy dictates she and everything to do with her must be erased like a dissonant of the government and the account on face-wank. I must never see her again. Again, it is why. Again, again, again. Law. Fuck it.
The train has arrived at Piccadilly. I have driven myself into a stupor of neurosis. Yet I must get ready for work, my colleagues and of course secret love of my life – Sheila – the tea lady. Calm down fucker! I realise the futility of taking the train into work. I have a story comprised of some neo-gonzo crap that if submitted. My editor would stick it to my head with blue-tac and then use me as a dartboard. I have two empty minded ***** to thank for it too.
I breathe a sigh of relief as I get off the train and head towards the backwater of Manchester city centre. I see about ten people as I leave behind the masses of non-people that spewed out of Piccadilly. The approach to work seems...eerie at best, due the quiet ghostly main streets. It reminds me of how soulless London is and why I should make no effort to go back there.
Fifteen minutes of walking bring me to the foyer of work. The security guard seems upbeat as he greets me. Perhaps the home football team won its midweek match. I do not seem to care, which is un-American of me, as we love sports to bits. However, despite his job, how boring it is, how people do not care about why he is even there. He is a statement of fact – one of only two people in here that are essentially cognisant of being alive in the building.
The newsroom is its own heartbeat and lifeblood. Nobody talks save through their fingers and the occasional phone call to check if the information submitted is indeed accurate. Paranoia is as essential to this room as water is to sustain most life.
Those first couple uneasy hours go by and the usual politicians clog my emails with press releases that show that they have been listening to the people lobbying them about their small issues in life. That he or even she actually cares enough to lie about this crap. As it would not matter among all the noise of text driven voices. Semi-colon. The other ideas I have in my email account amount that lay claim to the same meaningless nothing that today’s society calls food. It is always, quite remarkably, the same voice. Exclamation mark.
Eleven thirty arrives. As does the highlight of my day Sheila. She is unrevealingly beautiful. She goes unnoticed throughout the day as each journalist fixates on every typed word. Her tea-lady’s uniform covering all of her form. As indistinguishable as air. Yet the hidden always entices. In my point of view, that is another facet of why she is the midday sun of my life. I like this fact very much. She is almost like a piece of art in motion. I can never tell her due to red tape. It seems like some sort of sick joke of a human body turned inside out. My mouth is nothing more than a goldfish breathing air in the bowl of water in which it swims. Frustrating. Double underscore.
Serving my usual milky tea with two sugars and a bourbon biscuit. I thank her as I look at her face longingly. That face has now blossomed into a sweet rose of embarrassment. I realise that I just made a very big mistake. Her emotion is a mirror that has betrayed my love to a passing random face of examination and soon, all and sundry in the newsroom.
Sheila leaves to give other employees their refreshments. Keys tap louder through the face-wank interface as if the message itself has echoed through the Grand Canyon. People’s faces yodel at their pale white screens in glee at the crime-think that I just committed. My life is just seconds from officially being screwed unless I sort out the red tape of which binds and chains our everyday life into a committal. I am not ready yet. I am still a monomaniac. I cannot protest. Yet nonchalantly I think protest. Fuck, I hate the internet. Exclamation mark. Orwell was a whore.
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