(no subject)
i'm trying to go along with the kissmachine theme. it's not rly working.
Eddie hasn’t figured out how to count his blessings, yet. So he’s been numbering them and rearranging them and trying to find combinations that add up to perfect numbers and inspire perfect sequences. But with every one he adds to the shelf, he has to erase the numbers from two more. Finding the fiver on the bench was some kind of amazing and entirely deserving of #394, but that bird he discovered the day before last made one big mess in his bathroom and left him with a nasty horrible feeling in his stomach. Bird flu, it must be, influenza his mother had warned him about. He nearly threw up on the pretty girl down the hall and she slapped him so hard his eyes stung, which took away the importance of #196: “girl down the hall brushed her arm against me in the elevator and we’ve created the foundation for physical contact”. Physical fucking contact; his mum told him that if a girl hurts you, she just might like you. (Grade school where hitting is just a way to touch someone and insults are another form of communication.) His mother told him a lot of nice solid pieces of advice that are just monumentally cluttering up his blessings. Making him stock pile too many of them up and creating the base for a very unfortunate spring cleaning. Oh yes, his mother was a great provider. Better than “yr son of a bitch father. What did he every give you? Big blue lying eyes and went on his right fucking way now didn’t he? Gave you a face to help you get away with things and didn’t really bother to stay around and help you through anything. Count yr blessings, boy. Yr damn lucky to have had a mother like me.” Eddie locks the cupboard when he’s done re-labeling for the night. His head hurts from recognizing how “goddamn fucking lucky” his childhood was.
Eddie hasn’t figured out how to count his blessings, yet. So he’s been numbering them and rearranging them and trying to find combinations that add up to perfect numbers and inspire perfect sequences. But with every one he adds to the shelf, he has to erase the numbers from two more. Finding the fiver on the bench was some kind of amazing and entirely deserving of #394, but that bird he discovered the day before last made one big mess in his bathroom and left him with a nasty horrible feeling in his stomach. Bird flu, it must be, influenza his mother had warned him about. He nearly threw up on the pretty girl down the hall and she slapped him so hard his eyes stung, which took away the importance of #196: “girl down the hall brushed her arm against me in the elevator and we’ve created the foundation for physical contact”. Physical fucking contact; his mum told him that if a girl hurts you, she just might like you. (Grade school where hitting is just a way to touch someone and insults are another form of communication.) His mother told him a lot of nice solid pieces of advice that are just monumentally cluttering up his blessings. Making him stock pile too many of them up and creating the base for a very unfortunate spring cleaning. Oh yes, his mother was a great provider. Better than “yr son of a bitch father. What did he every give you? Big blue lying eyes and went on his right fucking way now didn’t he? Gave you a face to help you get away with things and didn’t really bother to stay around and help you through anything. Count yr blessings, boy. Yr damn lucky to have had a mother like me.” Eddie locks the cupboard when he’s done re-labeling for the night. His head hurts from recognizing how “goddamn fucking lucky” his childhood was.