P. Bateman
Vet
- Joined
- Mar 21, 2009
- Messages
- 1,113
I’m bored, like old trees without leaves in days before time mattered and souls weren’t bruised by thoughtless sins.
Sitting among tattered blankets pondering life with the philosophical prose of a retarded snail about to be stepped on, but too slow to respond.
Rain beats down outside, its silver drops wreaking havoc on the balcony railing. The sounds , if one chooses to pay attention, are like the incessant pounding sounds your parents headboard used to make as they made uncomfortable love, attempting to re-enact a time where their love was profound and meaningful.
I find comfort in the little things though. I poke through my ear with my index finger, pull it out to find a waxy build-up at the tip, I wonder where that came from? I make sure no one is paying attention before I role it up between forefinger and thumb and flick it towards the recesses of the darkening room.
The fan makes a slight humming noise and I wonder what would happen if I were to stick my fingers in between the spokes. Great, now there’s that little voice in my head, “go ahead, do it. Stick your fingers in there. Do it”.
I place my attention elsewhere. My son is playing at the kitchen table, playing with his match box cars. He seems so completely enthralled by those little cars. He gently pushes them across the table, he’s so gentle with his toys, I hope he won’t be a homosexual.
I don’t know what the hell my Daughter’s doing. She appears to be rolling on the floor, making little cooing sounds. She Sees me watching her and stops, a look of embarrassment on her face, I guess I’d be embarrassed too.
I look at my son again, “hi puckey-pie” I say, “I love you”.
“I love you too Daddy’ he says.
I think to myself, puckey-pie? What’s a goddamn puckey-pie. And why do we feel the need to call the ones closest to us by some asinine “cute name“; Sweet-heart, darling, ass-monkey (my wife).
Boredom’s a bitch isn’t she.
Sitting among tattered blankets pondering life with the philosophical prose of a retarded snail about to be stepped on, but too slow to respond.
Rain beats down outside, its silver drops wreaking havoc on the balcony railing. The sounds , if one chooses to pay attention, are like the incessant pounding sounds your parents headboard used to make as they made uncomfortable love, attempting to re-enact a time where their love was profound and meaningful.
I find comfort in the little things though. I poke through my ear with my index finger, pull it out to find a waxy build-up at the tip, I wonder where that came from? I make sure no one is paying attention before I role it up between forefinger and thumb and flick it towards the recesses of the darkening room.
The fan makes a slight humming noise and I wonder what would happen if I were to stick my fingers in between the spokes. Great, now there’s that little voice in my head, “go ahead, do it. Stick your fingers in there. Do it”.
I place my attention elsewhere. My son is playing at the kitchen table, playing with his match box cars. He seems so completely enthralled by those little cars. He gently pushes them across the table, he’s so gentle with his toys, I hope he won’t be a homosexual.
I don’t know what the hell my Daughter’s doing. She appears to be rolling on the floor, making little cooing sounds. She Sees me watching her and stops, a look of embarrassment on her face, I guess I’d be embarrassed too.
I look at my son again, “hi puckey-pie” I say, “I love you”.
“I love you too Daddy’ he says.
I think to myself, puckey-pie? What’s a goddamn puckey-pie. And why do we feel the need to call the ones closest to us by some asinine “cute name“; Sweet-heart, darling, ass-monkey (my wife).
Boredom’s a bitch isn’t she.
