“Do you understand what this means for science?” says Hawthorne, fizzing with excitement.
Senji glares at him, probably. “This isn’t a fun project. How did you manage to give me frictionless skin?”
“Except on your hands and feet!” says Hawthorne. “A breakthrough!”
“I can’t sit down without an infinite wedgie.”
“The Slip ‘N’ Slide potential alone!”
Senji tries to rub the bridge of his nose and fails. “I liked it better when you only experimented on yourself.”
“You said we were drifting apart,” says Hawthorne, hurt. “This is a meta–”
“IT’S NOT A METAPHOR I WANT MY EYEBROWS BACK,” says Senji.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
“How glad I am to see you, your honor,” says a slightly feverish Federico, when the guardia march him into the receiving hall of the ruler of Florence. “Oh, how long have been these twenty years, as I travelled all Asia at the behest of your lordship’s curiosity. But I have returned, with the truth clutched in my fist!” He brandishes a tiny crystal bottle. “Though my companions perished, though the journey left me divorced and bankrupt, I return to you with the essence you requested: the source of scent!”
“I said ‘some sort of sense,'” says Lorenzo.
“What?” says Federico.
In 2002 Rhoda won a sweepstakes reproduction of the house from Honey, I Shrunk the Kids–built for the threequel, but identical down to Rick Moranis Character’s wacky Rube Goldberg devices. There was a cash option, but she took the house on a whim. You can’t beat California real estate for investment value!
Ha ha ha ha!
She’ll never sell it, she knows, morosely lubricating a model train. It’s supposed to pull the string to tilt the track to run the marble down and put on some music, but everything here is disintegrating. The only record that plays is “Yakety Sax.”
There’s this stretch of Larrabee Road where the stop signs have all been turned north-south by enterprising souls and all the streetlights disabled, which keeps the traffic down. Claire likes it. The smell of cold french fries has taken up residence in the car’s ventilation system, but it’s not unpleasant, and the heater halfway works.
Claire burned a mix of shoegaze and wordless ennui and hasn’t taken it out of the player yet. She won’t, as long as it works.
You can coast a lot longer than you’d expect, on flat ground, once you take your foot off the pedal.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
A point about high-functioning addicts: their function is often quite high.
Salman has two hours between errands to get the house presentable for tonight’s book club: he knocks out the laundry and the mopping in a tight fifteen. Gotta get some food in, too. Salman rinses a single plate with one hand and pops the dishwasher door with the other. He closes it with his heel.
One must have space to unpack the paraphernalia. One must have time to clean it, when done.
The door opens, and a smile is there to greet them. Salman could swear it wasn’t his.
Symptoms may include loss of appetite, loss of concentration, loss of keys, ennui, and burning sensations in your eyes when trying to sleep.
Symptoms may include heightened sex drive, lowered standards, overly available digits, and gin goggles. Do not operate heavy anatomy while under the effects.
Symptoms may include trouble remembering names in the morning.
Recommended treatment: devoted and untroublesome friends who exist only in movies. Should these prove unavailable, consider waiting until the sun comes out in April and getting the fuck over yourself. Consult your physician before decreasing any masturbation regimen.
Side effects are similar to a candy heart.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Bitches in heat on the sheep farm and boy dogs are testing everything for meat temperature. Kendall likes chastising them with paintballs, but Da expressed firm-handed displeasure upon seeing their technicolor coats. She’ll wait for her week alone, pasturing on the Jones land. Rain obliterates the evidence.
Padrig had better fuck her again there, too, or she’ll turn the muzzle on him. The smell of the rolled-up tent makes her shiver. Smells do it for Kendall: tent mildew, sweaty boy, and the wet wood of the dock they’d run down, diving bare into water as cold as the moon.
“Nobody ever did that,” says Agnes. “It’s an urban legend.”
“Are you sure?” says Fantine. “If the ashes were fine enough–”
“You don’t snort something that smells wrong by accident! Because when you start to snort, you put your nose near it!”
“Cocaine dulls your sense of smell,” says Diego. “Also how are you so knowledgeable about snorting?”
“I’m knowledgeable about basic critical thinking skills,” says Agnes, “but only in comparison to present company.”
“Look, there’s only one way to resolve this.”
So they break into the crematorium. It doesn’t resolve anything, but Fantine’s coat smells like fire for a year.
The Teutons are a bitch to play in this game but Alejandro really wants to see if he can get through the campaign, survive the Lithuanian uprising and limp to the Peace of Thorn.
“We miss you,” she says, her IM window making the monitor blort.
“I’m done with guild drama,” he types back.
“Nursing your chapped ass in VGA nostalgia?”
“No.”
“So you’re not trying to take back Samogitia right now.”
Alejandro winces. “Yeah, well.”
“Do you miss us?”
“You mean ‘me?'”
But she’s already signed off.
The Peace of Thorn is brief and bitter; it becomes the Hunger War.