Slow Chemical -- Day One
Slow Chemical is a work of fiction presented to be a vampyric metaphor for the worlds I'm driven by in all of my writing: politics and the arts. Additions to the story will be posted between each regular 'Blog entry. Enjoy.
When I awoke that morning there was no way that I could have known of the things that would soon become of me. The only thing on my mind at the moment was a simple choice: to pee, or not to pee? I knew that if I got out of bed, then by the time I had completed my mission in the lavatory it would be all but impossible to fall back asleep. Briefly, I considered the money-making opportunities in the bedpan industry, but my sanity was saved by a beckoning smell crawling under the door to my room. So, I pee’d.
Mom was up and preparing breakfast in the kitchen. She means well, but her recent fascination with healthier diets just wasn’t going to fly with me. I’ll never understand the logic behind putting yourself through a bunch of stress and suffering, simply to prolong your life of further stress and suffering. Low-carb, high-disappointment yolkless eggs and faux bacon were out the window today though, because mom was turning sixty this morning, and looked finally determined to live a little. I sat with her and we indulged in her favorite foods, Fruit Loops and Pepsi, and watched back-to-back episodes of the Price is Right. It was a short-lived and rather pathetic birthday celebration, as I had to finish up my chores and get ready for a long day on the phones at the job I’d grabbed when I learned just how much mom needed me right now. School could wait another year.
Doing the dishes, I thought about the way things used to be. When I was a kid I would go to great lengths to please mommy on her birthday; I wrote a song once that actually contained lyrics such as “you never even beat me when I whipped out my peepee,” which at the time was a token of honest, heartfelt gratitude for all the streaking I had gotten away with. She still sings that stupid song at family gatherings, just to embarrass me. Now I could barely find the time or energy to mutter a “happy birthday, ma,” on my way out the door. Personally I didn’t feel like celebrating at all, as I was hung up on having my perfect little storybook life being stripped away to take care of the woman, and I resented her for it. At the time I thought things couldn’t get much worse, but in retrospect I still had it pretty good.
On my way out I heard her call to me – there were three overstuffed garbage bags that she had been saving up over the past several weeks, and they had my name on them. I grabbed the load and wished her another quick happy birthday, with a slightly less convincing smile, and dashed out the door and down the stairs toward the garbage bins. It was a frigid January morning, so I moved at a brisk pace; the sooner I was in my car and out on the open road, the better. I also couldn’t shake this weight in the pit of my stomach – you know, that feeling you get when something bad is about to happen to you – which I couldn’t explain, but it inspired me to be yet quicker to get going. As I lifted the lid to the trash bin I heard a noise directly behind me, startling me in my state of paranoia, so instinctively I spun around to see the source of my fears. I thought I saw a figure moving behind the trees, but it was all just a foggy mess to me. What I know for sure is that my fears were justified, as I watched the bullet spin toward me in slow motion, and my lips hadn’t the time to form the first syllable in “oh shit” before I hit the ground.
When I awoke that morning there was no way that I could have known of the things that would soon become of me. The only thing on my mind at the moment was a simple choice: to pee, or not to pee? I knew that if I got out of bed, then by the time I had completed my mission in the lavatory it would be all but impossible to fall back asleep. Briefly, I considered the money-making opportunities in the bedpan industry, but my sanity was saved by a beckoning smell crawling under the door to my room. So, I pee’d.
Mom was up and preparing breakfast in the kitchen. She means well, but her recent fascination with healthier diets just wasn’t going to fly with me. I’ll never understand the logic behind putting yourself through a bunch of stress and suffering, simply to prolong your life of further stress and suffering. Low-carb, high-disappointment yolkless eggs and faux bacon were out the window today though, because mom was turning sixty this morning, and looked finally determined to live a little. I sat with her and we indulged in her favorite foods, Fruit Loops and Pepsi, and watched back-to-back episodes of the Price is Right. It was a short-lived and rather pathetic birthday celebration, as I had to finish up my chores and get ready for a long day on the phones at the job I’d grabbed when I learned just how much mom needed me right now. School could wait another year.
Doing the dishes, I thought about the way things used to be. When I was a kid I would go to great lengths to please mommy on her birthday; I wrote a song once that actually contained lyrics such as “you never even beat me when I whipped out my peepee,” which at the time was a token of honest, heartfelt gratitude for all the streaking I had gotten away with. She still sings that stupid song at family gatherings, just to embarrass me. Now I could barely find the time or energy to mutter a “happy birthday, ma,” on my way out the door. Personally I didn’t feel like celebrating at all, as I was hung up on having my perfect little storybook life being stripped away to take care of the woman, and I resented her for it. At the time I thought things couldn’t get much worse, but in retrospect I still had it pretty good.
On my way out I heard her call to me – there were three overstuffed garbage bags that she had been saving up over the past several weeks, and they had my name on them. I grabbed the load and wished her another quick happy birthday, with a slightly less convincing smile, and dashed out the door and down the stairs toward the garbage bins. It was a frigid January morning, so I moved at a brisk pace; the sooner I was in my car and out on the open road, the better. I also couldn’t shake this weight in the pit of my stomach – you know, that feeling you get when something bad is about to happen to you – which I couldn’t explain, but it inspired me to be yet quicker to get going. As I lifted the lid to the trash bin I heard a noise directly behind me, startling me in my state of paranoia, so instinctively I spun around to see the source of my fears. I thought I saw a figure moving behind the trees, but it was all just a foggy mess to me. What I know for sure is that my fears were justified, as I watched the bullet spin toward me in slow motion, and my lips hadn’t the time to form the first syllable in “oh shit” before I hit the ground.
posted by Christoph at 5:34 PM
2 Comments:
to pee, or not to pee?Ok, that really shouldn't have made me laugh as hard as it did.
I remember this post from before, and liked it a lot. But now, context, now that's just fucking incredible.
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