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divisions and additions: (this is actually part of the same story as what I posted before but I just found it and it doesn't flow with the part I already posted so fuck off.)
I will start this story at its beginning. One day, a surgeon and a housewife had sex. God begat Eric, and so was life. I will continue this story fifteen and three-quarters years later.
Eric sat in English class, realizing that he will ultimately die. The teacher babbled on and on about death, dying, and taxes. Being fifteen, Eric had hardly come to grasps that his life had no meaning, let alone that it would end. He looked around, and everyone else had the same face as him. That is, of course, everyone except the smelly stoner that sat in front of me and myself. I had already heard this speech, at some point, on a television show. The stoner was high.
Eric mumbled to himself, looked at the teacher and raised his hand. The teacher did not call on him. Eric had to piss. Or puke. I have since forgotten which.
The reason that Eric was never called upon is simple. Eric’s head worked in a manner similar to that of a clock mixed with a cannon. The wheels all turned. The hands all moved in the same direction. But the time when the clock’s alarm rang was not set by predetermined intervals, but instead when the cannon’s fuse was lit. At that moment, the clock’s hands would spin furiously until it got tired and just picked a time for the alarm to sound. After this, something resembling a fiery cannon ball would find its way from his brain to his throat to his mouth to the air.
By this time, we all knew when the fuse was lit and when the hands were spinning at their correct speeds. The teachers knew too. When the fuse was lit, Eric was seldom called upon. The fiery cannon ball would always be an amazing display of light and color, but the destruction it would have caused far outweighed the images it invoked.
Most of the time, Eric’s fuse was the only one lit. The teachers would look around, metaphorically pleading for someone else to give an answer of any sort.
“Someone I haven’t heard from?” They would say. “Someone that hasn’t already contributed?” Silence. Always silence. We never looked up. We didn’t want to. I never could.
The fuse had been lit for Eric, but not because he had something unimportant to say, but because he had to project some sort of fluid from some hole on his body. It was unfortunate.
I will start this story at its beginning. One day, a surgeon and a housewife had sex. God begat Eric, and so was life. I will continue this story fifteen and three-quarters years later.
Eric sat in English class, realizing that he will ultimately die. The teacher babbled on and on about death, dying, and taxes. Being fifteen, Eric had hardly come to grasps that his life had no meaning, let alone that it would end. He looked around, and everyone else had the same face as him. That is, of course, everyone except the smelly stoner that sat in front of me and myself. I had already heard this speech, at some point, on a television show. The stoner was high.
Eric mumbled to himself, looked at the teacher and raised his hand. The teacher did not call on him. Eric had to piss. Or puke. I have since forgotten which.
The reason that Eric was never called upon is simple. Eric’s head worked in a manner similar to that of a clock mixed with a cannon. The wheels all turned. The hands all moved in the same direction. But the time when the clock’s alarm rang was not set by predetermined intervals, but instead when the cannon’s fuse was lit. At that moment, the clock’s hands would spin furiously until it got tired and just picked a time for the alarm to sound. After this, something resembling a fiery cannon ball would find its way from his brain to his throat to his mouth to the air.
By this time, we all knew when the fuse was lit and when the hands were spinning at their correct speeds. The teachers knew too. When the fuse was lit, Eric was seldom called upon. The fiery cannon ball would always be an amazing display of light and color, but the destruction it would have caused far outweighed the images it invoked.
Most of the time, Eric’s fuse was the only one lit. The teachers would look around, metaphorically pleading for someone else to give an answer of any sort.
“Someone I haven’t heard from?” They would say. “Someone that hasn’t already contributed?” Silence. Always silence. We never looked up. We didn’t want to. I never could.
The fuse had been lit for Eric, but not because he had something unimportant to say, but because he had to project some sort of fluid from some hole on his body. It was unfortunate.
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