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Brainpower
“Another one? Really?” it spoke to him in the darkness of his apartment on some Tuesday night in late June. “We must work on that. Have you been reading those articles I selected for you? Alcoholism is no laughing matter.”
“Cool it man, I know exactly what I am doing. Stop counting my drinks and politely piss off. Mind your own damn business,” Andrew snarled in reply.
“Oh, but you ARE my business. You are nothing but my business my silly little friend. Let me simplify it for you, let me lay out all the details so you may never get things twisted,” it spoke with an authoritative tone. “You are like a puppet with strings running all through your body; a toy to be played with and laughed at. You are a sponge that will soak up the crap content of any mess I tell you to. You are foolish should you think anything else aside from what I tell you to think.”
Andrew stared straight ahead saying nothing. He looked at the cabinets in his apartment and wondered why they were cracked so nicely. Long, smooth little cracks. He always admired broken things; they gave him some sense of joy while others only became angry or frustrated with the lack of perfection. Beer in hand, Andrew got up from his couch, careful not to make yet another permanent stain, and walked sluggishly to the kitchen.
It began to speak again, “Andrew, must we always have this same song and dance? I grow so tired of imagining the bland basics of everything as you continue to dull your mind each night. I paint the walls beige for you and erase excitement from your life; stomping out any sign or smell of creativity. There are only so many valves in here and I have such limited access.”
Andrew entered the kitchen, carelessly ignoring the judgment cast. He checked his blurred surroundings with a pang of disbelief, like a groundhog looking for his shadow only to find the freaky faces of impatient strangers. He spotted the hairs, dust clumps, loose toenail clippings, food crumbs and other wonders dotting the white tiles of his kitchen floor. “The maid’s been out for quite some time, eh?” he mussed. Andrew always had a way of making himself chuckle, among others or all by himself. He drew closer to his dorm room sized fridge in the kitchen and toyed with the tacky Christmas lights dangling on its sides before pulling opening the small, lower door.
Inside were the many treasures most common bachelor’s hoard: an overturned half-full bottle of cheap Sake, four loose Heineken cans, a tiny airplane carry-on bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream, a Budweiser tallboy, six eggs, a misshapen stick of butter and of course, a nearly empty bottle of ketchup.
The voice chirped up...
“Cool it man, I know exactly what I am doing. Stop counting my drinks and politely piss off. Mind your own damn business,” Andrew snarled in reply.
“Oh, but you ARE my business. You are nothing but my business my silly little friend. Let me simplify it for you, let me lay out all the details so you may never get things twisted,” it spoke with an authoritative tone. “You are like a puppet with strings running all through your body; a toy to be played with and laughed at. You are a sponge that will soak up the crap content of any mess I tell you to. You are foolish should you think anything else aside from what I tell you to think.”
Andrew stared straight ahead saying nothing. He looked at the cabinets in his apartment and wondered why they were cracked so nicely. Long, smooth little cracks. He always admired broken things; they gave him some sense of joy while others only became angry or frustrated with the lack of perfection. Beer in hand, Andrew got up from his couch, careful not to make yet another permanent stain, and walked sluggishly to the kitchen.
It began to speak again, “Andrew, must we always have this same song and dance? I grow so tired of imagining the bland basics of everything as you continue to dull your mind each night. I paint the walls beige for you and erase excitement from your life; stomping out any sign or smell of creativity. There are only so many valves in here and I have such limited access.”
Andrew entered the kitchen, carelessly ignoring the judgment cast. He checked his blurred surroundings with a pang of disbelief, like a groundhog looking for his shadow only to find the freaky faces of impatient strangers. He spotted the hairs, dust clumps, loose toenail clippings, food crumbs and other wonders dotting the white tiles of his kitchen floor. “The maid’s been out for quite some time, eh?” he mussed. Andrew always had a way of making himself chuckle, among others or all by himself. He drew closer to his dorm room sized fridge in the kitchen and toyed with the tacky Christmas lights dangling on its sides before pulling opening the small, lower door.
Inside were the many treasures most common bachelor’s hoard: an overturned half-full bottle of cheap Sake, four loose Heineken cans, a tiny airplane carry-on bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream, a Budweiser tallboy, six eggs, a misshapen stick of butter and of course, a nearly empty bottle of ketchup.
The voice chirped up...
