Chapter ten of my latest, fictional fuckuppery.
In case you didn't know, I'm writing a book. That's right. I just wrote this brief chapter in a fifteen minute long, caffeine fueled burst. I like it a lot. It's chapter ten. Of course, you have no basis for the characters, so ignore whatever pertains to them. Begin and end at quotes. Copyright 2003, bitch.
"I will buy her one thousand dinners in one thousand expensive restaurants. I will buy her a new van with the latest accoutrements to replace the rickety racket ramshackle rampart van she drives now, the one with the duct tape holding on her driver side mirror, the one with the fabulous dents and eternal grey puddle spray covering its once white exterior. I will buy her a very fast luxury sports car to transport herself in style and speed to my house at the piedmont of the White Mountains. Better yet, I will buy her a new house nearer to mine, build it on my own property with my own hands or hands purchased from the able contractor who constructed my own palace behind the acres Alpine. I will buy her a new wardrobe of the finest designer clothes, fly in the famous NYC dress crafters to take her measurements and suit her for a life of haute couture. I will buy her jewelry, extravagant resplendent jewelry that cracks light with prism precision when it sparkles, shiny stones so bright that they attract the attention of everyone within a ten-mile radius of her spotlight fingers. I will buy her spa trips and hand treatments to exfoliate and replenish the natural beauty of her imagined body so worn by years of plumbing, like the brutalized, fractioned pipes she repairs. I will buy her a personal trainer; an ugly man or woman who will not be an item of sexual delight or interest, to tone and shape her imagined body into whatever form she desires. I will buy her a private jet. I will buy her a private airfield built on my own land. I will buy her wholesale destruction of the natural beauty of the world, if that is what she desires.
I will love her beyond the means of my able bank balance, beyond the paper worth of the securities I own, beyond the tangible liquidity of everything I own. I will love her with or without children should she bear any, should I be able to seed her fertile reproductive tract. I will love her in spite of a terrible childhood, in lieu of a great family, because of a wonderful childhood, because of a fruitful and terrifyingly sexual adolescence, because of a strong family that will either accept or deny the entrance of a pudgy, bald man, of no worth to the Earth past his bank book and estate into their loving, open arms or out of their cold, unfriendly home. I will love her well into her old age when her physical beauty is but a remnant in the folds of a crumpled bag of skin and hair and varicose veins. I will love her in the unknown expanse of death, in either the good or bad place if she believes in them, wherever the heart stops, I will follow the soul from the body into the heat of the universal fire that consumes, recycles, reproduces and replenishes.
My love resume is blank.
I am a monk minus the robes and religion."
"I will buy her one thousand dinners in one thousand expensive restaurants. I will buy her a new van with the latest accoutrements to replace the rickety racket ramshackle rampart van she drives now, the one with the duct tape holding on her driver side mirror, the one with the fabulous dents and eternal grey puddle spray covering its once white exterior. I will buy her a very fast luxury sports car to transport herself in style and speed to my house at the piedmont of the White Mountains. Better yet, I will buy her a new house nearer to mine, build it on my own property with my own hands or hands purchased from the able contractor who constructed my own palace behind the acres Alpine. I will buy her a new wardrobe of the finest designer clothes, fly in the famous NYC dress crafters to take her measurements and suit her for a life of haute couture. I will buy her jewelry, extravagant resplendent jewelry that cracks light with prism precision when it sparkles, shiny stones so bright that they attract the attention of everyone within a ten-mile radius of her spotlight fingers. I will buy her spa trips and hand treatments to exfoliate and replenish the natural beauty of her imagined body so worn by years of plumbing, like the brutalized, fractioned pipes she repairs. I will buy her a personal trainer; an ugly man or woman who will not be an item of sexual delight or interest, to tone and shape her imagined body into whatever form she desires. I will buy her a private jet. I will buy her a private airfield built on my own land. I will buy her wholesale destruction of the natural beauty of the world, if that is what she desires.
I will love her beyond the means of my able bank balance, beyond the paper worth of the securities I own, beyond the tangible liquidity of everything I own. I will love her with or without children should she bear any, should I be able to seed her fertile reproductive tract. I will love her in spite of a terrible childhood, in lieu of a great family, because of a wonderful childhood, because of a fruitful and terrifyingly sexual adolescence, because of a strong family that will either accept or deny the entrance of a pudgy, bald man, of no worth to the Earth past his bank book and estate into their loving, open arms or out of their cold, unfriendly home. I will love her well into her old age when her physical beauty is but a remnant in the folds of a crumpled bag of skin and hair and varicose veins. I will love her in the unknown expanse of death, in either the good or bad place if she believes in them, wherever the heart stops, I will follow the soul from the body into the heat of the universal fire that consumes, recycles, reproduces and replenishes.
My love resume is blank.
I am a monk minus the robes and religion."