(no subject)
i love eddie. the name, the character, the argos.
it is the mission's one year anniversary or at least it was last thursday. and the day after, amazingly enough nev got second place in a monologue/short story writing contest with a character named Eddie. (remember she told you she uses the name for any random characters she can't name yet?) anywhore. therefore it is pretty much dedicated to you (and julie for being all like "omg brigitte bardot is a neo-nazi!"). happy belated mission birthday.
eddie vs. the toaster
(Comes into the room and yawns. Opens a bag of Wonderbread, takes out a slice and puts it in the toaster. Pushes down the lever, but it just pops back up. Repeat until agitated.)
Must be Tuesday.
(Pushes down the lever one more time, just in case, before letting out some sort of annoyed “argh”. Walks to the door and sticks his head out, yells)
Frank! Frank! I think you might have misplaced my rent again. I put the cheque in your mailbox last night. How about you just turn back on the electricity and we’ll both have some breakfast.
(Gets no reply and waits half a minute before walking back into the room. Pushes down the lever again and it pops back up)
I have to hand it to the old bastard; he’s not as stupid as one might think.
(Takes a bite of the bread and puts the rest of it down)
It’s just not the same. I have toast with jam for breakfast every day, except on Tuesdays, the first Tuesday of the month really. It breaks my entire cycle, so I’ve been incorporating it into my cycle. Every first Tuesday I go to Julie’s for breakfast, leave a post-it on the way and spend the day there. Until last Tuesday. Last Tuesday was like any other first Tuesday, or at least on my part it was. But when I get to Julie’s, she bursts open the door. Nearly rips it off its hinges and laughs right in my face and exclaiming “Brigitte Bardot is a neo-nazi”. Now I don’t take to this kindly, Brigitte Bardot is not a neo-nazi, but oh no, she insists. “Brigittte Bardot married the leader of the neo-nazi party and therefore Brigitte Bardot is a neo-nazi”. I try to reason with her, you can’t be a neo-nazi just by association and Brigitte Bardot is unquestionably, without a doubt not a neo-nazi, because… because she’s Brigitte Bardot and she’s gorgeous and… and (said seemingly logically) she’s French. “She publicly promoted the party” Julie reasons. Now it’s about this time that I get more than a little upset with Julie. I explain to her that I can’t be friends with someone who promotes this blasphemy and calmly and very rationally walk out the door and back to my apartment. This is of course after I’ve taken the time to find her Wonderbread, pop a slice in the toaster, spread some raspberry jam on it and eat some breakfast. See normally my rage would surpass my hunger, but I was really jonsing for some toast that morning. I mean, you understand, right? Brigitte Bardot is not a neo-nazi, she just, she doesn’t have an indecent bone in her body and believe you me, I have spent many an hour looking at her body.
(pause as Eddie looks around the room tiredly before returning to stare at his reflection in the toaster)
And of course I’m wrong. I’m always wrong where “getting to know a female for her personality and not her looks” is concerned. And the problem turns out to be that I have never taken the time to get to know Brigitte Bardot. I could have read her book. I could have read that she’s been charged for “inciting racial hatred”. I could have read that she’s been charged four times. But I don’t want to read. I don’t want to get to know Brigitte Bardot. If I got to know Brigitte Bardot, she wouldn’t be perfect. It’s like… It’s like the girl down the hall. Nice girl, big blue eyes, legs that go on forever; I hear her voice as I’m walking to the elevator and I think she just might be the girl for me. So I’ve started leaving post-it notes on her door. Whatever comes to mind. “I bought a kettle, would you like to come over for tea” or “I think I finally understand what Freud was talking about”. I’ve even tried to be witty and I’ve tried to be charming and I really think she’s falling for that shit. I mean I think that she might think I’m the guy for her too. But she doesn’t know she thinks it yet. She keeps hanging around with this creep who she can’t possibly like, ‘cause he looks like a skinhead and he keeps sticking post-it notes on my door and the things he says. It’s just not right. Plus he’s butch and he’s hideous and… and (disgustedly) French. Which is why I’ve given up on women.
(pushes down the lever, pops back up. )
(dejectedly) Women and toast. I mean, logically speaking, no one’s perfect, right? And I’m not really the best judge of perfect to start out with. If my six year old heart could be deceived by a racist blonde bombshell, then I can’t really trust anything it tells me.
(pushes down lever again and it pops back up)
I’m really jonsing for a piece of toast.
longest email ever.
xx
nev&sarah
it is the mission's one year anniversary or at least it was last thursday. and the day after, amazingly enough nev got second place in a monologue/short story writing contest with a character named Eddie. (remember she told you she uses the name for any random characters she can't name yet?) anywhore. therefore it is pretty much dedicated to you (and julie for being all like "omg brigitte bardot is a neo-nazi!"). happy belated mission birthday.
eddie vs. the toaster
(Comes into the room and yawns. Opens a bag of Wonderbread, takes out a slice and puts it in the toaster. Pushes down the lever, but it just pops back up. Repeat until agitated.)
Must be Tuesday.
(Pushes down the lever one more time, just in case, before letting out some sort of annoyed “argh”. Walks to the door and sticks his head out, yells)
Frank! Frank! I think you might have misplaced my rent again. I put the cheque in your mailbox last night. How about you just turn back on the electricity and we’ll both have some breakfast.
(Gets no reply and waits half a minute before walking back into the room. Pushes down the lever again and it pops back up)
I have to hand it to the old bastard; he’s not as stupid as one might think.
(Takes a bite of the bread and puts the rest of it down)
It’s just not the same. I have toast with jam for breakfast every day, except on Tuesdays, the first Tuesday of the month really. It breaks my entire cycle, so I’ve been incorporating it into my cycle. Every first Tuesday I go to Julie’s for breakfast, leave a post-it on the way and spend the day there. Until last Tuesday. Last Tuesday was like any other first Tuesday, or at least on my part it was. But when I get to Julie’s, she bursts open the door. Nearly rips it off its hinges and laughs right in my face and exclaiming “Brigitte Bardot is a neo-nazi”. Now I don’t take to this kindly, Brigitte Bardot is not a neo-nazi, but oh no, she insists. “Brigittte Bardot married the leader of the neo-nazi party and therefore Brigitte Bardot is a neo-nazi”. I try to reason with her, you can’t be a neo-nazi just by association and Brigitte Bardot is unquestionably, without a doubt not a neo-nazi, because… because she’s Brigitte Bardot and she’s gorgeous and… and (said seemingly logically) she’s French. “She publicly promoted the party” Julie reasons. Now it’s about this time that I get more than a little upset with Julie. I explain to her that I can’t be friends with someone who promotes this blasphemy and calmly and very rationally walk out the door and back to my apartment. This is of course after I’ve taken the time to find her Wonderbread, pop a slice in the toaster, spread some raspberry jam on it and eat some breakfast. See normally my rage would surpass my hunger, but I was really jonsing for some toast that morning. I mean, you understand, right? Brigitte Bardot is not a neo-nazi, she just, she doesn’t have an indecent bone in her body and believe you me, I have spent many an hour looking at her body.
(pause as Eddie looks around the room tiredly before returning to stare at his reflection in the toaster)
And of course I’m wrong. I’m always wrong where “getting to know a female for her personality and not her looks” is concerned. And the problem turns out to be that I have never taken the time to get to know Brigitte Bardot. I could have read her book. I could have read that she’s been charged for “inciting racial hatred”. I could have read that she’s been charged four times. But I don’t want to read. I don’t want to get to know Brigitte Bardot. If I got to know Brigitte Bardot, she wouldn’t be perfect. It’s like… It’s like the girl down the hall. Nice girl, big blue eyes, legs that go on forever; I hear her voice as I’m walking to the elevator and I think she just might be the girl for me. So I’ve started leaving post-it notes on her door. Whatever comes to mind. “I bought a kettle, would you like to come over for tea” or “I think I finally understand what Freud was talking about”. I’ve even tried to be witty and I’ve tried to be charming and I really think she’s falling for that shit. I mean I think that she might think I’m the guy for her too. But she doesn’t know she thinks it yet. She keeps hanging around with this creep who she can’t possibly like, ‘cause he looks like a skinhead and he keeps sticking post-it notes on my door and the things he says. It’s just not right. Plus he’s butch and he’s hideous and… and (disgustedly) French. Which is why I’ve given up on women.
(pushes down the lever, pops back up. )
(dejectedly) Women and toast. I mean, logically speaking, no one’s perfect, right? And I’m not really the best judge of perfect to start out with. If my six year old heart could be deceived by a racist blonde bombshell, then I can’t really trust anything it tells me.
(pushes down lever again and it pops back up)
I’m really jonsing for a piece of toast.
longest email ever.
xx
nev&sarah