Here's a small piece I came up with moments ago. It's heavily inspired by the irreverent and sarcastic style of British author Robert Rankin. Not on purpose, however. I sort of absorb the style and voice of authors I've been reading and/or listening to on books on CD. I recently re-listened to The Witches of Chiswick, Nostradamus Ate My Hamster, and Fandom of the Operator.
Here it goes:
What if, when you look in the mirror, you don’t like the person you see looking back at you? What if, on top of that, it’s always a different person looking back at you? And you don’t particularly care for any of them?
Aside from the fact that you’ve got a problem, I’d also say, “Hell, at least you’re not alone!” For I, too, have that problem.
Today, when I gazed upon the dreaded mirror (at a local pub, as I have removed all of the mirrors from my apartment), I saw a stone-cold bitch. She looked like she’d just as soon take a shit on my face as look at me. But she was looking at me. Which made me very uncomfortable.
The thing that was most unnerving about this bitch wasn’t just her look of absolute loathing that made me wish I’d never been born. No, it wasn’t that, though that look would put you in a right frightful mood all by itself. No, it was the fact that I’d seen her before!
Never before had I seen a repeated countenance gaze back at me. My first thought, well, second thought, right after, “Oh my good god, what the hell?!”, was this: “Maybe this is the real me.” If it was the real me, it would explain a hell of a lot of things. Things like, “Why don’t I have any friends?” and “Why does everyone I know think I’m pissed off all of the time?”
This was a bit of a conundrum for me. You see, I’ve never particularly cared for myself or my looks, even though I couldn’t really trust what my face actually looks like. It even changes in each picture that I’ve had taken of me (which I avoid just as much as I avoid mirrors).
Still, I could see my body, which I sort of trusted my eyes’ perception of, as I can feel it as well. Thick in the thighs, hips, and buttocks. Sort of narrow in the waist, but not as much as I’d like. No breasts to speak of really. On my good days I can fill an A cup, I suppose. And I didn’t like this at all.
But back to the damned mirror. I must’ve stood there like a stooge staring at it for quite some time. Finally another woman had to rudely nudge me to get my attention off of the ice queen that was staring daggers at me from the mirror.
“You look fine,” she whined plaintively as she bumped me with her bony hip. “Please move over and let me wash my hands. I’ll help you with your makeup if you’re worried about impressing someone. Just let me wash my damned hands!”
“Oh,” said I to her, stupidly. “But I don’t wear makeup.”
“You think I can’t see that for myself?” she sniped, walloping me with her hip again, albeit more forcefully.
If I weren’t so inebriated, I probably would’ve noticed that she was more messed up with the spirits than I was. She smelled faintly of vomit, and I recalled hearing some unsavory noises before she appeared at my side. However, my liquor addled brain didn’t put these things together to paint a bigger picture.
Dear Rene Angelil
1 year ago