Tuesday, March 29, 2011

An Account of The Five Minutes You Were Gone

A story told in a few ways, an exercise from my English class:

At 3:15:46 yesterday I put down the phone and life suddenly came into clear view. I realized first that I did not like the curtains that you love so much. I removed them. Sorry. It then occurred to me that this was an exciting event. I had to write about it. I did. I took out my sharpie and wrote about it. In the middle of this glorious description I noticed the dog you adore had become frantic. I asked it what was wrong, and it told me that it needed to disguise itself. I proceeded to use the sharpie to turn it into a black cat. The dog had trouble with its self-identity. He wanted to be a cat. Like a transgender. It must have been trans-species. I then continued writing an account of…I had to switch sharpies. The other was tired. I then continued writing an account of the glorious revelation of the curtains. I guess you are wondering why I decided to use the wall as my stationary. It is part of the minimalist direction I want to take with my life. By the way, he called. He has the tickets to Florida. I thought you were going on a business trip. Oh well. I’m leaving you. It’s part of my new minimalist direction.

Haiku
I put down the phone
I destroy what you love the most
Broken hearts do that

Senatorial debate
What the honorable Senator (asshole) neglects to mention (because he’s an idiot too) is parties that are invested in the proposition other than the American public. Chiefly among which are corporations (that have bought the honorable asshole) that, to put it lightly, appear to be in bed with some members of this chamber. Ladies and gentlemen, I implore you to look closely at this proposition. It is a blatant and inexcusable violation of the eighth amendment; more specifically the clause on cruel and unusual punishment. If this chamber passes this (which it already has because this whole chamber is owned) then we will have state sanctioned torture. This torture manifests itself chiefly in the form of a broken heart. I warn you, the people will not stand for it; they will lash out and seek out revenge. Vigilante justice against the torture will occur and after the dust has settled, the people will leave us because we have not safe-guarded them. And this senate (full of stinking, festering corruption) will be dissolved and the people will find a better one (let’s hope). So, I implore this chamber not to pass this proposition. Thank you.

Vonnegut Jr. (Surrealist?)
Even though Miles saw it as inevitable, he was not prepared for the rapidity with which everything descended. We know that Miles was going to get his heart broken but Miles only knew he would go crazy. Miles did go crazy. But first he put down the phone calmly. He was calm for a time. This calm was merely a valve that let Miles slowly release his emotions to his liking. On this day at this time, Miles turned the valve on full. He took Cindy’s most prized possessions and lashed out at them. He took the curtains down. He wrote on the wall. He drew on the dog. His pen ran out of ink but he had more. He continued to deface Cindy’s love because, even though he didn’t quite understand it, she, Cindy, had defaced his love. To a passive observer he was just crazy, but to us—and especially to himself—everything he did was just perfect. He would never know, however, that the tickets were for him and her. Cindy and Miles.

Hemingway. Minimalist.
Miles was shocked by the news. He put down the phone. He picked up the pen. He wrote on the walls. He tore down the curtains. He drew on the dog. He cried the whole time. She loved everything he ruined. He knew it. He didn’t care. She ruined everything he loved. She knew it. She hadn’t cared. Finally, he left her.

James Frey.
The stench comes through the phone. I experience blinding rage. I tear at the first thing I can see. It’s the curtains. I feel them rip in my hands. Tearing. Crashing. Infuriating. I hate the curtains. I hate everything they stand for. No thoughts. Just get rid of them. Tear. Pull. Rip. Nothing will be left. Nothing. A pen. Yes. A pen. Take it. Use it. Write. Write an account. Show her your rage. Blinding rage. All of it. Gone. But she knows now. She knows why the dog is covered in black ink. She knows why her precious curtains are on the floor. She knows why they are in a million little pieces. My rage subsides. Pain. Uncontrollable pain. My heart breaks. My heart shatters into a million little pieces. I need to leave. I find my way to the door. Lovesick and homeless now. She was cheating on me. This whole time. Two tickets to Florida. She didn’t invite me. As I stumble down the street I cry.