(no subject)
Here's a short story I'm writing, I may continue it later, we'll see.
This is here a story about an average guy, making his average way through his average world. Currently, his average self determined he needed a new pack of ciggarettes. He grabbed his coat and headed out the door. He found himself shuddering uncontrollably, the winter weather had taken a hold. It wasnt so cold though, warm enough for the rain to beat on his head. He always hated rain. It felt like someone was purposely trying to agitate him.
Still he continued, griping silently. He pulled out his last cigarette. He had faced it upwards, as you are traditionally supposed to do. The last ciggarette is called the "lucky". When acquiring a pack, you are supposed to pull one out, the very first one, and flip it upside down and smoke it as your very last. He thought the whole thing was ridiculous, as no luck has really come to him his whole life. Unless you consider the hacking cough from smoking lucky, but he sure didnt.
Not to be undeterred, he lit his ciggarette and only for a moment, his surroundings were illuminated. The dark pavement below revealed its cracks. It was gone in a flash, lucky was lit. He questioned his decision to walk, it was cold and raining, possibly his two least favorite weather conditions. He rationalized his own thoughts by saying he was saving gas. His old stand-by was that walking cleared his thoughts. It never did that to him, he assumed all people were liars. Being stuck alone in the cold only gave him time to realize where he was.
It was a burning question. He was on a road. With houses. Filled with people. Who? He didnt know, he wasnt brave enough to talk to his neighbors. Of course he didnt mean the question literally, but it was the first answer that always came to his head.
Where he was, well that was a college student, stuck in a dead end job, with a dead end major and probably a dead end future. He regularly questions his college enrollment. "Whats its use?" "Where will it get me?" The answer always came in the form of the root of all evil. In debt. Still with 4 years of more schooling, more money is almost guaranteed. He loves the word almost. Its not guaranteed, theres no promise. Its just a fun way of saying "piss some more money away, it might help with your life!" Suddenly he envisioned himself drowning in a lake and the great S.S. College throwing him a life raft.
He still questions his college. Why go? For what use? He figures someday he'll just be famous and his college education will be null and void. Of course, who doesnt think about being famous? Just having people wait on you hand and foot. Delivering your every need. People buying Enquirer just to see how you live your life. Being paid millions to make an ass out of yourself. "I'd do it" he says to the ground.
He envisions his fake funeral, millions of people world wide crying about his death. People he's never met. People that dont know him. People that have only read his autobiography, most of which he made up to sound more interesting. It'd be fun he figures. Of course, with fame, comes problems. Papparazzi, following your every move. He figures he wouldnt mind. He'd have fun with them. Maybe wear funny shirts for the tabloids. Stuff that say "Hile hitler" and "If you eat cheese, you're murderer", just to get some people talking.
He wonders what it would feel like, having so many people care about you. Your own fan club. Most people now dont care about you. Your school most certainly doesnt. You might as well walk into class, deliver a check and leave. Thats all you are. For pretty much your whole life. One giant bank account. Cant live if you dont have money.
He shakes his head to get out of his depressed stupor. He decides along with his pack, maybe a soda would be pretty good too.
/lj-cut>
This is here a story about an average guy, making his average way through his average world. Currently, his average self determined he needed a new pack of ciggarettes. He grabbed his coat and headed out the door. He found himself shuddering uncontrollably, the winter weather had taken a hold. It wasnt so cold though, warm enough for the rain to beat on his head. He always hated rain. It felt like someone was purposely trying to agitate him.
Still he continued, griping silently. He pulled out his last cigarette. He had faced it upwards, as you are traditionally supposed to do. The last ciggarette is called the "lucky". When acquiring a pack, you are supposed to pull one out, the very first one, and flip it upside down and smoke it as your very last. He thought the whole thing was ridiculous, as no luck has really come to him his whole life. Unless you consider the hacking cough from smoking lucky, but he sure didnt.
Not to be undeterred, he lit his ciggarette and only for a moment, his surroundings were illuminated. The dark pavement below revealed its cracks. It was gone in a flash, lucky was lit. He questioned his decision to walk, it was cold and raining, possibly his two least favorite weather conditions. He rationalized his own thoughts by saying he was saving gas. His old stand-by was that walking cleared his thoughts. It never did that to him, he assumed all people were liars. Being stuck alone in the cold only gave him time to realize where he was.
It was a burning question. He was on a road. With houses. Filled with people. Who? He didnt know, he wasnt brave enough to talk to his neighbors. Of course he didnt mean the question literally, but it was the first answer that always came to his head.
Where he was, well that was a college student, stuck in a dead end job, with a dead end major and probably a dead end future. He regularly questions his college enrollment. "Whats its use?" "Where will it get me?" The answer always came in the form of the root of all evil. In debt. Still with 4 years of more schooling, more money is almost guaranteed. He loves the word almost. Its not guaranteed, theres no promise. Its just a fun way of saying "piss some more money away, it might help with your life!" Suddenly he envisioned himself drowning in a lake and the great S.S. College throwing him a life raft.
He still questions his college. Why go? For what use? He figures someday he'll just be famous and his college education will be null and void. Of course, who doesnt think about being famous? Just having people wait on you hand and foot. Delivering your every need. People buying Enquirer just to see how you live your life. Being paid millions to make an ass out of yourself. "I'd do it" he says to the ground.
He envisions his fake funeral, millions of people world wide crying about his death. People he's never met. People that dont know him. People that have only read his autobiography, most of which he made up to sound more interesting. It'd be fun he figures. Of course, with fame, comes problems. Papparazzi, following your every move. He figures he wouldnt mind. He'd have fun with them. Maybe wear funny shirts for the tabloids. Stuff that say "Hile hitler" and "If you eat cheese, you're murderer", just to get some people talking.
He wonders what it would feel like, having so many people care about you. Your own fan club. Most people now dont care about you. Your school most certainly doesnt. You might as well walk into class, deliver a check and leave. Thats all you are. For pretty much your whole life. One giant bank account. Cant live if you dont have money.
He shakes his head to get out of his depressed stupor. He decides along with his pack, maybe a soda would be pretty good too.
/lj-cut>