Writing Practice – 2/8/2019

One of your eyes, hands, or feet will be taken as payment to vote in the next election. Do you vote? If so, which do you give up?

Of course I vote. It is not only a civic duty, but there are real consequences for the fact that I have to get out of power whoever it is that has put this policy in place. At this rate, I can only vote 6 times unless something changes, and that’s not a lot. So I’m going to create the “One-Eyed, One-Armed, One-Legged” coalition, and we’re all going to band together and vote for politicians who don’t want that policy to continue.

As for me, first I’d choose to lose my left hand. I write with my right, so I need that. Second preference, 4 years down the road, is that I lose my right leg. I guess maybe I could go left. But that would seem unbalanced, like all my RoboCop is only on one side of me. Because let’s be real, I”m gonna get prosthetics or artificial limbs or something. I could do a lot with that pinch-grabby thing on my non-writing hand, and when it comes down to it, those dudes who run on those fake blade-legs look pretty damn cool.

So – if we don’t get the policy changed after 2 election cycles, I have a big decision to make – Lose an eye, and therefor binocular vision, or one of my remaining really popular appendages? Because, face it, in a market with just one hand, that one becomes much more than twice the value of one in a market where there’s two. I really need hand for doing the stuff I do – putting DVD’s into the player, jerking off, turning down the lights – so I guess I”ll give up a foot before the other hand.

Why, though? Why wouldn’t it be better to lose an eye, and learn to compensate as a full half-a-man, rather than lose the foot and have to either wobble on two blades or get crutches or a wheelchair or something? Maybe because if I lose the other foot, but I can still see really well, I’ll be competent enough to drive a wheelchair, and then I can enter wheelchair runs. I bet I couldn’t do that with only 1 eye and 1 leg. Poor depth perception, I’d probably run off the road into the ditch too many times.

Do kids these day even know what ditches are? Should they? Well, yes, they should, because it’s a thing around them. But do they really understand wha goes on in them? Hell, do I?

How did I get on this topic? Don’t think, don’t get logical. That’s how.

Would I survive the loss of a 4th element of my body just to vote? I’m guessing that by that time, if we haven’t had a large enough groundswell of voting and turnout and momentum to swing the legislature towards the “vote without blood” side, we probably won’t ever win, because by the fourth or fifth time, we’ll have enough people who’ll be like, “damn it, I lost both my eyes voting, I don’t want to let youngsters vote for free,” and so they’ll vote, but they’ll vote for the “pay to vote” candidates. Kind of like a fraternity – once you pay your dues, you don’t want to let freeloaders in. Does this develop a sort of social signaling system, whereby only those who have “sacrificed” in order to vote are viewed as committed enough to the cause to get the good-paying jobs, the management positions, the raises and bonuses? Man, that’s a weird world I have in my head. Hope nobody ever goes in there. They’d come out screaming in terror.

Writing Practice 2/4/2019

A lady in the streets, but a freak in the bed.

Miss Madame Margaret Marybelle Morton walked the thick-choked streets of London with her parasol in one hand, the other clutching her new purchase tightly beneath her elbow. The box wiggled occasionally, and with the jostling of the crowd she wished not to lose her grip and expose the contents to the onlookers, for the benefit of herself and them. That had happened before, and the terrified gasps that inevitably resulted not only pained her delicate ears, they also led to public shaming, ridicule, and required Miss Morton to leave the city. It had happened twice before, in both Admonton-on-Leeds and Shirshey, and now that she had established herself here in London, she hoped to avoid yet another uprooting.

Miss Morton threaded her way carefully, through the crowds, her parasol not only intended to keep the sun off her neck but also to ensure she fit in with this society. It sometimes bothered her that she was so different in so many ways, and yet such a feeling could be mollified by the appearance, such as now, in that group in public in which she simply looked like everyone else, and it was easy to believe that none of them were any the wiser.

She reacher he building after only about ten minutes’ walk from where she procured her purchase, and it had settled. Good. Perhaps the shock of uprooting and dumping into the box had worn off; that would make the next few minutes easier. Lady Morton had tried to teach her daughter other ways, but the younger had never really took to those, so… she must live like this.

In through the door with her key, up the three flights of stairs, inside the flat’s single locked door once again, and Miss Morton could finally drop the parasol and the accompanying charade. Off went the overcoat, off went the petticoat, and out came the fangs.

Miss Morton carried the box, with the squirming, living, breathing, now suddenly squealing rat into her bedroom. She had taken each and every stitch of clothing from her body and dropped them in the living room entryway, forgotten for the moment as her hungry mind lusted for its soon-to-be-feast. She gently closed the bedroom door and set the small box upon the duvet cover.

She knelt before it, feeling the softness of the sheets on her knees. With trembling hand she reach out and lifted the lid. The breath caught in her throat as she felt her stomach clench in wondrous anticipation. There it was – thick, brown, beady-eyed, a fine specimen.

She lifted the rat from the box and it squirmed, slightly, wrapping its tail around her wrist. It squealed, and she felt a smile creep across her face. The miniature claws scratched at thin air, and she placed her other hand near them, to let it rake against her palm. Would it draw blood? No, not this time. Just as well. She tightened her grip on the animal and brought it towards her face. She could smell its musk, dank, like the sewers, dark like the night. She inspected its back. The bite mark she’d left there in the shopkeep’s presence an hour earlier, her teeth-marks as she tested the goods, were still visible, the blood having dried in the two opposing crescents. She felt her smile widen even more. Miss Morton opened wide, turned to expose the soft underbelly, and began to get her freak on.

Disgusted By Modern Life

A few weeks ago I saw a beautiful picture in the local weekly paper. A happy couple, dressed up in their finest attire, kissing with passion. I’m pretty sure it was these people:

2018-04-07
http://nostalgiaphotographystl.com/weddings

Now, I don’t have anything against weddings. Hell, I had one myself. Flowers, pretty dress, booze, rain, fraternity brothers hitting on sorority sisters, pictures in a book, tears, dancing, falling asleep before you could consummate, the whole works.

Weddings are fine things. They’re fun, they’re exciting, they’re a momentous occasion. I think they should be special.

I also think they should be reasonable. And what’s unreasonable about the picture I saw, in that newspaper, was that it was a full-page advertisement. For a bank.

Your Perfect Day

We’ll help you pay for it.

Wedding Loans as low as 4.99% APR

Special Rate through March 31

Ugh. Disgusting. We have now sunk so low as a society where this is acceptable. Where going into debt for an experience is considered reasonable. Where people who don’t have enough money to support themselves somehow think borrowing money is going to solve that problem.

Where bank executives, driven by profit targets, see an untapped opportunity and instead of counseling people to, perhaps, I don’t know, LIVE WITHIN THEIR MEANS!, reach out and collect interest from those who would likely be better off delaying the party for a year in order to save for it properly.

Where “investors”, a.k.a. you and me in our 401(k)s, seek ever higher and higher returns, driving bank executives to predatory practices, driving advertisement that indebtedness is a good thing to people who really shouldn’t be borrowing and are too naive to know better, driving dissatisfaction with life and the marriage, driving, ultimately, a negative cycle of emotion and action.

Don’t get me wrong – borrowing can have its good uses. Mortgage on a house, college loans, even auto loans are all using money to create more value for those who borrow. But borrowing to have a party? Putting yourself even further behind as you start your relationship? Seems ridiculous and short-sighted on the part of those who are taking out the loans, seems predatory for those who are making them, and seems negligent for those friends and family members who are sitting around and encouraging it.

Please stop this modern merry-go-round. I’m sick, and I want to get off.