Penance

It was that approach, that speculated distance between he and her. The ambiguity purposeful, with out distinction so the vague may fill your role appropriately. A creeping wave of emotion, building in the far off tide, a conjuring of the spirit among salty water. He would try not to swallow too much of it. She was his deliverance from the mundane, the fray of life wearing at the edges he was old before he had lived. Such preoccupation was unhealthy.
"Next."
God damn if this shit shift wouldn't end already.
"I'll take a number 7 combo with curly fries, and no mustard. Last time you guys put..."
My fist through your God damned face.
"...mustard on there and I got all the way home before I saw it."
"8.52"
"Is that the price for a large?"
"I just presumed."
"Presumed? Because I'm fat? I want to talk to your manager!"
"No, you always order large. Every Friday, same order."
Now they feel like an asshole for forgetting me, I'm a human that you see every week and you can't even remember my face.
"Oh... right."
That's right tubby, I have no idea if you order this here every Friday or not. Worst case scenario it's a simple misunderstanding. I just thought you were fat and would order a large, and then get indignant about it. I know how all this works, I know what you will say before you say it, you are, no we all are that predictable. Why am I still here at this abysmal station of the cross? Is there any meaning to any of this? Fuck that diminutive view, meaning is small, accomplishing is big.
"Order 568, number 7 combo extra mustard."
"You asshole. I said NO mustard."
"I'm kidding, it was a bad joke."
"Oh, sorry."
She was here though, well there, she's over there right now. Was she just looking at me? Maybe I should joke around so she thinks I"m interesting. Yeah that's a good idea.
"HEY."
Well that came out louder then expected.
"S'up?"
With eyes beyond words she looked inquisitively. Now he had to come up with a joke, in a desperate panic he thought of a friends previous work.
"I'm thinking of starting an artistic rock band where we cut off our left ears. We're going to be called the Vincent Van Go-Go's."
"That's terrible."
Her laugh left him to disagree.

"YOU CHEEKY FUCK! I SAID NO GOD DAMNED MUSTARD!"
"Shit."




*Author's note: Hey guys just wanted to say I have no ill will towards any over weight people. The opinions expressed are really there to make you kinda hate the main guy. Hopefully the duality of human kind to both be appealing and appalling resonates louder then derogatory language.

An Introduction.

"My friend! Happy Tuesday!" This is how I am greeted in the food court of my work, in an over joyous south of the border accent. The sincerity and warmth of this greeting is exactly what I wish to express to you, welcome. It is spring where I am, inevitably I must write from the past, yet I aspire to pervade a suitable length of time to be of some relevance. Who am I to pontificate on this hoisted soap box atop a rickety stage? No one. No one indeed, yet who is anyone? I see the awe struck stares of the common man unto the Everyman. What is the difference though? Why are you, or I, or anyone any less then? We can soar with Einsteins, and Plato's. It is not the audacity to presume success but the realization of the work to get there and do it anyway with the same fevered intensity with which they approached to begin with.

That was my preamble, really it's more equatable to a preramble. You're not really suppose to address your audience directly, and coherence is usually encouraged, we'll get there. Stephen King calls it, "Stream of consciousness writing." He doesn't really, not to an appropriate enough degree to quantify this writing. But we writers are all unique aren't we? Slipping just past the status quo, and edgy enough to be noticed. Every. single. writer. We all buy it don't we? Thinking we're special? I've personally been told contractions are offensive to sophisticated eye, fuck'em.

We have all debated it, either consciously or otherwise, what causes good writing? Causes a blanketed term, sprawling diversely across character, story, intention, and true unrestricted art rendering a message so utterly clear as a faint glimmer amidst the swirl of action and intrigue. What makes that stuff? Kurt Vonnegut is excellent in the research he will save you. His nine rules of writing is practical advice wrapped in a wit uniquely his own. These rules presented in his 'style' are concise and engaging. The strongest take away is a wisdom far past my own, and a childish humor not afraid of the word shit. Everything in moderation of course, a man can not rightly yell "shit" constantly and expect the same reaction. "Hey, it's that guy who yells shit all the time!" Has never been said optimistically. Of course there are others who write about writing, the cyclical act of constant inner inspection being a favorite exercise of the unfortunate few donning the title of author. Did you plod through all that bullshit? "The unfortunate few donning..." God damn it stop talking already. Overinflated manure, we are all full of it. This manufactured drive to speak unnecessarily. In all truth if we all spoke when truly necessary there would be less wars, and a perception of less stupid people. The good doctor Hunter S. Thompson drove down hellish paths and drug fueled frenzies. Gonzo Journalism was a concept he believed in, but it was a procedure only he himself could perform. Much in the way that Vonnegut is Vonnegut, Hunter S. was gonzo. In the bleeding cacophony of competing subjects his writings were often introspective of their own procedure. A calling card to Gonzo being to live the story not merely sit back seat, take life by the balls and squeeze out some vicious lie that is just believable enough for you to make a getaway as they ponder the fictional realities.

This is me.