Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Trolling my computer's depths

It's strange to look at yourself as you used to be. Watching home movies, seeing old pictures, listening to dated recordings - I always feel strangley creeped out to look at myself in third-person way after the fact. It's almost like when you spit on the sidewalk, or cut your nails. The pieces don't belong to you anymore; they're not you. They're icky because they used to be.

I was mucking around my writing folders, cleaning out cobwebs (AKA old files and useless drafts) when I happened upon something from my humble, pathetic, talentless past. This was a one-sentence story assignment from my very first creative-writing class.


I am hungry for the sweet ripe flesh of plums, pears, peaches, pineapples, watermelons, mangos, berries; for the delicious tender taste of steak, lamb, chicken, rabbit, duck, salmon, shrimp; for the potent flavor of cheese, pickles, biscuits, salads, sodas, crumb cakes, and carrots, wishing to feel their sweet juices run down my chin, tickling my neck as they caress my recently shaven skin – irritating the razor burn and coating my little red marks with a sticky edible sap – smacking my lips as my tongue wraps around each morsel like a python ‘round some prey, slowly choking out the flavor before swallowing it in one gulp, reclining back into my chair with the sweet satisfaction of a sated appetite and stuffed belly, listening to the music of some forgotten blues musician wail out his frustrations in guitar-driven chords that I – in my ignorant bliss of hunger-induced gluttony – cannot hope to understand, because you see, living for the moment the next bite reaches my lips is all the understanding I posses, now lying down on the floor to search for soft sleep’s embrace to ease the swelling of my stomach, pressing against the waist-band of my jeans, tightening along the buckle of my belt, now sending stabs of ache and pain to a body that was feeling only pleasure and contentment, forcing me to restlessness – tossing, turning, moaning out against my need, to feed this poor shell of mine that sought only the company of soft breads, sweet wines, and an end to this desire for more, more, more, and more, food. Then my stomach exploded.

***Author's Note*** The second sentence at the end was added after-the-fact for dramatic effect when my class published our work that semester into a collection titled, "Nobody Kills Babies for Fun."

Yes, we were some sick individuals.

2 footnotes:

TeenCreeps said...

just kidding

Zek J Evets said...


but my ass IS phat.