I have sore eyes from continually staring at the screen, overanalysing words and wondering whether my grammar is correct. If only the grammar dictionary had a little “P-chan’s peculiar grammar”-section…
Once I’ve met my deadline, I will ask myself, “What now?” Will I be able to embark on a new story that is not metafiction and self-obsessed?
I feel so obsolete writing in Microsoft Word 2003.
Four days ago, my laptop wouldn’t boot, and I figured that something was wrong with the hard drive, but I couldn’t watch the bloody blue screen to pin down the issue. I emailed some IT guy whose business card I found at the halls of residence reception. He came round to my place the next day to give my laptop a check. And as already presumed, my hard drive was fucked. He installed a new one for me, which took almost two hours, and in between, we did small talk. I hate small talk. He was either of Pakistani or Indian descent; I don’t know; I didn’t ask. He seemed shy, too, he avoided eye contact more than I, and everyone knows that I hate looking people in the eyes. Whenever I was at my laptop, fiddling files, he would look around in my room and feel intimidated by the two masks on my pin wall. He also pointed at the Orozco flyer showing the skull with the black squares and elongated diamond shapes. He hesitantly asked whether I was into horror and voodoo.
His lack of interest in art and literature kind of put me off. In general, people who raise their eyebrows when you tell them you study creative writing are more annoying than those who say, “How the hell do you want to find a job?” I could tell that he was a conventional type of guy by how he viewed things, and I hated it. I did imagine dating him but couldn’t help concluding that he would have trouble connecting with me, and I would have difficulties with his religion no matter how laid-back he is.
So he fixed my laptop. I think I overpaid him by choice. And I escorted him back to the station because I had to go to the corner shop. But I assume he thought I had an agenda or something.
The day after, he sent me an email saying that he hoped my laptop was working okay and that I was such a cute, DECENT girl with such a nice smile. He was basically asking me out.
So WHAT’S THE MASTER OF REJECTION GOING TO SAY?
I’m not sure whether he had dropped by again or what because today I saw more of his business cards at the reception.
Maybe my horoscope was right for saying I needed to get out more and be more outgoing, so I get to know more people and find a lover. I feel awkward when people say they can’t believe I’m still single. I don’t tell them that all I do is sit on my arse in my room all day. I have no particular desire to show the world that I exist as a person. Or maybe I’m lying, but I don’t think I am. One thing is true, though; this room has sucked the colour out of my face. I envy people who go on a night out and get laid. But you can’t be who you are not. I only drink alcohol twice a year. Once on my own and the other time with friends on New Year’s Eve. In Germany only.
When I watch people consume alcohol, I wish I was one of them, but the moment they’ve swallowed the last sip, I always take my wish back.
Close before dying, I would like to consume LSD and take a similar trip to the place that Paul Groves visits in ‘The Trip.’ One final trip through the intestines and subconscious of my fiction.
I’m halfway through ‘A Short History of Decay,’ and it’s now that I learned that Cioran was a sympathiser for the fascist regime, calling himself a ‘Hitlerist.’ Despite his stance, I still can’t help liking that book. He’s more radical than Schopenhauer ever was and angrier. The book has nothing to do with fascism; it merely portrays a realist point of view. All blissful realists, however, will hate it. He condemns people’s “mortal thirst for fiction” and claims that we “could not exist one second without deceiving ourselves.” Bravo, now give me some Dickens.
Do you know where I find my fiction? It’s all hidden within my favourite music. There’s nothing more evocative than music, but of course, it’s not relevant to everyone. Art and film! FICTION, FICTION FICTION! Fiction inspiring fiction!
Where do YOU look for fiction other than in your own life?
What’s more important than fiction?
– Your family, of course.
I miss my family; knowing that they’re not in the other room makes me feel sad. It’s funny how my mother knows me best without ever having read any of my writings. My father was asking when my exams were, and I had to giggle. Too cute. My sister doesn’t read me either. This is why my family means to me the most because they already know my worst of the worst. So why read me?
When one is decent on the outside, you’ll know immediately that you can’t trust them. Especially not if they are into horror, strange masks and voodoo. Not to mention Giger-based nudity.
My Windows version isn’t genuine, and the Microsoft Version is doing me head in. It’s all getting slow again too. Please don’t die on me yet.
Hold on, hold on, it’s not long till home now, and I’ll have my CD-ROMs.
Home.
