Atop a mountain lives a chef reknown for his meals and what they mean to the world around him. Some say he is an artist, coming down his mountain cottage only to pick the finest of ingredients for his next masterpiece. Other believe him to be a professor of foods, a modern chemist who spends his time in his kitchen experimenting with his next perfect creation. Wiser men can understand that he is nothing so boorish.
Legend has it that during times of strife, he cooked the sadness in his heart into a goulash that brought the warring kings to their knees...
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Negative, No Matter What Type
I woke up to a beeping, steady like the sound of medical equipment engaged to keep me alive. Probably because that’s exactly what that beeping is.
She was sitting at the end of my bed, her face both tearful and furious at fragile body that faced her. My feet were cold, and I was going to ask her if she could stretch the blanket over them; but she seemed like she had something to say. We ended up staring at each other for a minute or two, and I was going to take incentive to break the silence but…
“Why are you being such a fucking retard?” she cried. I can’t help but wonder how many times someone has had that told to them the first time they wake up in a hospital bed. “We told you to stop donating blood already, and you promised that you would. You promised!”
“There’s no evidence that I – “ and then she held up a bunch of different ID’s with my face on them. Fuck.
“You’ve been pretending to be other people. So you can donate blood. Do you have any idea how fucking twisted that is?”
“People have done stranger things.”
“YOU PROMISED!” she stamped the ground, tossing the cards at me. This really was a little too dramatic; a little hammy if she weren’t so sincere. Of course, she had the right to be. Most people don’t consider theatrics when it comes to offing themselves. Or irony. Symbolism.
Jumping off a building or blowing brains up is easy. That doesn’t stay with people, though.
“Did you ever consider I’m doing this for the children?”
With that, the nurse stepped into my room to hand me some papers; timed just soon enough to prevent a possible ass whopping nearing second-degree murder. It was a brief interjection, but long enough for a cool down period to begin. I looked at my papers and audibly chuckled.
“It says the blood that I received was from Robert Madelyn.”
“What? Is that one of your secret identities?” she scoffed.
“No, but I did talk to him a little last time I donated…”
She was sitting at the end of my bed, her face both tearful and furious at fragile body that faced her. My feet were cold, and I was going to ask her if she could stretch the blanket over them; but she seemed like she had something to say. We ended up staring at each other for a minute or two, and I was going to take incentive to break the silence but…
“Why are you being such a fucking retard?” she cried. I can’t help but wonder how many times someone has had that told to them the first time they wake up in a hospital bed. “We told you to stop donating blood already, and you promised that you would. You promised!”
“There’s no evidence that I – “ and then she held up a bunch of different ID’s with my face on them. Fuck.
“You’ve been pretending to be other people. So you can donate blood. Do you have any idea how fucking twisted that is?”
“People have done stranger things.”
“YOU PROMISED!” she stamped the ground, tossing the cards at me. This really was a little too dramatic; a little hammy if she weren’t so sincere. Of course, she had the right to be. Most people don’t consider theatrics when it comes to offing themselves. Or irony. Symbolism.
Jumping off a building or blowing brains up is easy. That doesn’t stay with people, though.
“Did you ever consider I’m doing this for the children?”
With that, the nurse stepped into my room to hand me some papers; timed just soon enough to prevent a possible ass whopping nearing second-degree murder. It was a brief interjection, but long enough for a cool down period to begin. I looked at my papers and audibly chuckled.
“It says the blood that I received was from Robert Madelyn.”
“What? Is that one of your secret identities?” she scoffed.
“No, but I did talk to him a little last time I donated…”
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