Fiction: part 1

She thinks about the decision she made. Mulling over the pros and cons as she sips her hot chocolate staring out her window onto the street. She smiles, realizing that this is what she wanted all along, accepting that this is what needs to be. The sweet, warm drink soothes her throat. After crying for days it is a welcoming sensation. Cars drive by noisily, honking their horns, the drivers yelling profanities. It's music to her ears, a melodious intermingling of mechanical voices and urban salutations. She looks back at the computer screen at listings wondering who wrote them and what the circumstances were that lead to particular job openings. That company lost their marketing manager to a drug habit and an existential crisis, or this company's art director left after realizing his passion for music and nonconformity. The world is constantly changing, a fluidity reminiscent of spilled milk flowing over counter tops and splashing onto the floor, spreading freely, thickly, without calculation, but with purpose. She shifts in her chair. Trying desperately to focus on her task at hand. She closes the classifieds window and opens the page she's been trying to avoid since she sat down. New York State Psychiatric Institute. She looks over the website with terror and contempt, but also understanding and longing. The voices haven't stopped in weeks and her sanity seems to be flickering on and off in her head like fireworks, a burst of clarity and then a slow fade into the unknown. For weeks she's tried to function like everything was okay, going to dinner, going to work, going out, but all with a pang of regret. Happiness was now a distant memory she thought she could recreate by ignoring her incomprehensible feelings and embracing the simplicity of complacency, but her quick-fix emotion betrayed her. Ignorance was most certainly not bliss. She clicked on Looking For Treatment, her hands shook as she scrolled through the information. Filling out the form for clinical studies, she prayed there would be one to fit her needs. She briefly thought about just calling the hospital and checking herself in without telling anyone...



to be continued...


I'm out.

SHARK WEEK

There are quite a few things that confuse me when it comes to hipster culture. This month one in particular has been circling my consciousness- SHARK WEEK. Is there some sort of Wes Anderson reference buried deep within the marketing that is reminiscent of a dog whistle that only hipsters can hear? Is the reference Life Aquatic? That would make sense. Or maybe some obscure philosopher made some hearty claims about how sharks represent nihilism and embodied cognition. Perhaps it was some ethereal novel that spoke about sharks in relation to societal deconstruction and ultimately eventual, universal compassion and concord. Shark week, your popularity has eluded me and trying to figure you out makes my head hurt. Sigh. I guess everyone's partiality for Shark Week probably comes from the fact that sharks are just plain bad ass and watching them tear through things is really fascinating. I mean Jaws. AmIright?!





I'm out.