No Paranoia

Laugh Until My Head Comes Off
2003-06-11 00:07:41 (UTC)

Green Pleather

So I'm deciding to start writing a story...

August 3rd 12:03 pm:

The phone's plastic shine dulls the rubber buttons with the
worn numbers. It's not old, but it's used ten times more
than any other phone on the block. I blink and both eyes
change direction, leading my focus on old compact disques
that rest on the counter. James Taylor's Greatest Hits is
as dusty as the unused Toshiba picture box (television) in
the garage. Which reminds me, I need to clean the old car
shelter before Mother comes to realize I've lacked my due
with household chores. The light shines thru the drapes and
I stand from the forrest green pleather recliner to open
them.

I'm not quite sure why I notice such small things so often, all
I know is I always see the detail while most others fondly
ignore the obvious. Rich, the neighbor to the east of our
north facing home, is mowing his lawn. Not too bad of an
idea considering the weather man said, "There will be heavy
clouds tonight around 6 and thunderstorms are blowing from
the west to the east shore of Lake Michigan until late
night."

5:17pm - It's raining.

The weather man was truthful today. I mowed the lawn and as soon as
I finished the precipitated river water began to fall from the
condenced clouds. Amazingly enough, it was beautiful out while I was
mowing. The lawn is bright. I've never been able to imagine such a
green, but it exists. I must be lucky to be alive and experience
such gorgeous life among me.

--
I can't see a thing. I'm blinded by the mass of darkness that's
surrounding me. The lightning must have struck a power line. --Ah,
there we go. The only thing that's allowing me to see what I am
writing is the blinking numbers on my digital clock. 12:00 - 12:00 -
12:00. Perhaps if I were not being so lazy after the hour of mowing
the grass I would get up and turn my light on. Oh well.

In due time my mother will return home wondering why her hot meal is
not awaiting her on the table and where her new nude croched sweater
is, considering it is not in the laundry room where she had placed it
this morning before she had so hurridly run off to work. And my
reply to be, "I placed it in your closet. It is hung to the left of
the two unworn violet blouses and to the right of the hooded
sweatshirt that you bought on your visit to Aunt Macey's last summer
and managed to vomit on after over drinking." Expected, she will
become upset with my honesty and repeat her question of where her
dinner is. I'm sorry mother, but I just happened to be too busy
doing other things to keep you happy to cook your meals for you today.

(I shall be adding to the story, just feel like posting this much as
of now)




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