"How does it feel?"
"Pretty harming good," I replied as he wrenched the crowbar south.
"All right, that part's done. Are you ready for the next bit?"
"As ready as I'm steady," I said. I had stopped shaking four minutes ago.
"Here we go."
I felt an internal pluck and then there was silence.
"All done," he beamed.
"Is that it?" I asked, for I had expected considerably more pain.
"Yup. That's it."
"Incredible!"
"Indeed. How do you feel?"
I considered this a moment before replying.
"Better," I said.
"Then it's a job well done. Do you want to see it?"
"I suppose so," I answered indifferently.
He held up the large glass bowl in front of me.
"I'm glad I'm finally rid of it," I said.
"I'm glad I helped you finally rid it," he added politely.
After that, I lived forever, never contracted any diseases or acquired any detrimental conditions, became quite happy and married someone who wouldn't come around to my outrageous solution and thus died a disappointing average-length life. I became permanently emotionless from then on, but I still laughed at my best jokes.
Duck, Duck, Cockatiel
-
The move is officially complete, though I'm still living with a few islands
of stuff—the main one located in what agents like to call the "meals area".
Rea...
7 years ago
6 comments:
I like to think I'm awesome, and then along you come to make me question whether I have the right to be so narcissistic. I fancied myself a writer, once. I prided myself on my taste in music and keen observation for all things ironic and hauntingly telling of the future I'd find myself in. This was before years of idleness brought down the world I'd built around myself.
And now, having read this, I can only describe myself as feeling quite desperate.
So feel proud, or something.
I don't know what to say, really. Damn anonymous option. Still, if it is actually true and from someone I don't know, then yes, I will feel proud. Thanks, whoever you are. As for why I miss out on disease, well, I guess there wasn't enough to go around.
Oh and by the bye, Mr. Anonymous, everyone has the right to be narcissistic. In fact, everyone is. It's just that some people hide it better then others. So start writing again until you hold in your hands the great — whatever country you're from — novel.
But what if A. Nony-Nony-Mous was to write a masterpiece and, thanks to me, it'll never be writ? Oh woe is we. At least I have my disease-less body to amuse me.
That's Miss X/Anonymous to you.
Surely you don't love the idea of beating someone else down with your own literary aptitude? I know it would've turned me on back then. But the honour is yours, now.
Apologies Miss Anonymous. Actually no, I don't like the idea of beating someone down with my debatable literary aptitude. In fact, I feel quite awful about it. I'd rather inspire someone any day. Please rekindle your writing. I'm serious. Even if a) nobody reads it and b) those who do, dislike it, you should still do it. Writing, if you ever enjoyed it, is something that can't or at least shouldn't be destroyed by anyone. It's the most personal artform there is.
Aside from good ol' Love, writing (or alternative medium of your choice) will, in all likelihood, be the most fulfilling thing in your life. You should never underestimate it. It matters not whether anything you do ever gets published, the point is that it's there, and you put your heart and brain firmly into it.
For me, at least, my questionable creative endeavours fill a gaping in hole in my life that is reeling from the inexorable responsibility of the slowly looming near future. Or perhaps they're just vainly covering for an absence of better-halves. Either way, I couldn't live well without it.
And let me stress here that I'm probably more narcissistic then you. I'll bet you're a better writer then me, too.
Anyway, cheerio. I hope you work things out and eventually die happy.
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