Lack-a-Hollandaise-ical

The sun melted into the horizon, the yolk of a sunny-side up egg. Tom preferred his eggs fried, which coincidentally was how he was feeling on his habitual walk through the hills of Newkansas. Oh, how lonely he felt at that moment, remembering that no eggs could ever reach his sparse meals, not after that horrible disaster. Funny, nothing quite tasted like chicken after it had disappeared. Life in East West Virginia would never be the same again.

“Curse you, world! Curse you Post Pre-Cambrian Explosion! Curse you who ended my love of Eggs Benedict!”

The yolk disappeared from view.

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Quack

It looks like a duck, it walks like a duck, it talks like a duck, (That is, if ducks could talk. I’m assuming here that ducks cannot talk, but who knows? They could surprise me. This assertion is also conditional on the fact that ducks do not speak any human tongue, and not, in fact, a duck language of its own right, which would still remain unintelligible to me, who, as you know, does not know of any such language and would no doubt put very little effort into learning it.) so it’s a duck. Probably. I could be wrong.

Unsightly

“I just found it really fascinating, you know? The whole idea that the brain is simply responding to a relativistic array of stimuli and adapting accordingly. It really sheds a new light on our perspective on sight, pardon the pun. Gwahahaha!”

Ugh. Does this guy never stop? It’s just a standard maintenance check, not a friggin’ college seminar. Perhaps the silent treatment will work...

“I guess I’ve just got an “eye” for funny! Snort.”

...no dice.

“Wait. I can’t see.”

“Hey man, don’t scare me like this.”

“No, really, I’m blind.”

“Well, that’s why I brought a flashlight!”

...no answer.

I should justify this, huh?

I’m a perfectionist. No, that’s not right.

You could call me a perfectionist, although I use that term lightly. Wait, no.

Perfection. Some say that I am but a puppet at the mercy of the strings of my condition. Some say? How cliché!

This curious affliction of perfection, it straightens the oxbow lake of my life. No, no one will understand that.

When in the course of human events... Real original.

That which is perfect runs through the very fibre of my being. No, no! It’s all wrong!

What I’m trying to say is that I’m working on it, okay?

Driven insane

Sometimes, I think, it’s nice to close my eyes while in the passenger seat. Any car, at any speed, with one condition. I must imagine myself in a roller coaster. Yes, a roller coaster. It’s quite fun. Going up a hill, normally humdrum in terms of its view, turns into that spectacular anticipation before a drop. Each turn is exaggerated, the fictional rails bending at the will of my imagination. For some reason, the speed only increases, faster and faster until my stomach turns. My eyes snap open. You may think I’m weird, and I am sometimes, I think.

To whom it should concern,

I’ve been skirting around this issue for awhile now, and I guess what I’m getting at is that I love you. Yes, that’s right. This very moment shall be remembered as the time of my confession. A confession of love. One that should not come as a big surprise, to be honest. I mean, we’ve been together for as long as I can remember. Our thoughts are practically one and the same. But this love, that had been quietly bubbling beneath the surface of my emotions, must now come to light. What’s that? Step away from the mirror, you say?

A Warning

At that moment, he knew they were dead. Not dead in the conventional sense of the word, the whole endless oblivion thing, but dead in the sense that they could no longer go back to the way things used to be. The way life should have been, if only they were not dead. But they were. They were! Dead. Dead. The word kept ringing through the despair of his consciousness and he just kept grappling with his slowly crumbling perception of death, life, and other existential fluff.

“No! Nooooooooo!” he cried. “You can’t go left!”

But they did go left.

Yeah, duh.

Am I real? One would tend towards an answer of “Yeah, duh,” or perhaps an “Are you stupid?” Rolling one’s eyes would have the same effect as well, but hear me out! I am, admittedly, just a figment of my own perception. I can change my actions at will, and do so in a manner that depends on the person I am with. With Sally I act as is appropriate based on my past with Sally. This implies that the idea of “me” in the eyes of Sally as opposed to, say, “Pierre” would be different. Therefore, am I real?

No fluff

“No fluff,” said John.

“There is no fluff here, sir.” Another sentence, this time said by Mary. John would have known this detail had he checked her nametag, haphazardly placed but still in plain sight. Eye contact was never his strong point. Instead his focus was on the empty landscape to his right, devoid of anything interesting. Better than this dusty diner, thought John.

The implication of Mary’s statement suddenly hit him.

“No mustard, sorry.”

“Certainly”

As Mary shuffled off in all her nameless glory, John couldn’t share her feeling of certainty. To his right, the clouds looked like cotton.

How to be unproductive

The sinking feeling of something gone missing. Something that could be right there, should be right there, but is not. All I can imagine is myself in your presence, smiling and content in your company.

But.

All I can see is a blank page, the place where you were last week. Situations change, time passes, and the world is so cursedly entrenched in the fourth dimension. I meander the halls in a contradictory haze of resigned desperation.

“Where are you? My life is nothing without you!”

In the back of my mind, I know. Math homework does not solve itself.

My Dream (Last night, that is...)

He wandered purposefully through the backward back alleys of the night. The purple darkness warranted that of a more depressing scene, filled with unheard shouts and unseen ends. But rather than all this, the avenue unknown to most was home to his favorite spot, a small sandwich shop so sweetly named The Love Between Us.

He entered, and ordered the dessert sandwich, filled with mustard, sugar, and the sickly sweet taste of regret. To his right was a couple.

“I have nothing more to say Margaret. I have nothing more to say, so please, please stop making me say it.”