He sat, defeated, against his now-defunct car. The sun reflected off the hot tarmac as though it were a mirror, blinding him as he grimaced. With face contorted in a futile attempt to beat the sun, he looked first west and then east. The vacancy of the horizon suggested the advent of unwilling solitude on a stretch of unfamiliar highway hours from home.
After a moment of struggling to make out little more than the shimmering waves of heat lying low along the road in the distance that straddled him, he slowly let his head fall into his hands with brows furrowed and eyes shut tight. He rued the moment.
Begrudgingly, he lifted himself off the ground. He supported his clumsy rise with her body—an unlikely source of aid, given the circumstance. Standing upright, with shirt glued to his back as only perspiration can adhere, he again surveyed the landscape. His fears were confirmed as he lay his hands on her for support.
I am alone.
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Furious, she ripped herself away from my embrace. “Don’t fucking touch me,” she screamed with a venom that could have bored holes in the dust-covered kitchen tile beneath her would it have fallen from her mouth rather than been spit into my face with inhuman force. She stepped away hastily, nearly tripping herself on the half-built shelving unit that lay in pieces on the floor.
Here we stood, a newly-unionized couple enjoying the first weekend of togetherness. We stared at one another for a moment in silence, her venomous ire dripping down my face in the form of sweat and a stray tear. Her anger began to engulf her: her face turned as red as the pits of Hell, her eyes burned with the fire of a thousand suns, and she clenched her fists around the house’s best wrench, no longer screwing dainty screws into untreated wood, as though it were my very throat.
We stood at odds with one another across that pine-felled battlefield; wood chips and scattered debris punctuated the scene, signifying the great war that had taken place.
As the dust settled, I caught her eye. Not a moment passed before her mouth went from ajar to fully open, giving way to an erupting, streaming spew of ceaseless and deafening noise. The spring sun beamed into the room as though it was the hellish rays of God’s own punishing eyes burning into my back at the beckon call of her demonic roar. The pine boards across the battlefield glimmered in the soon-summer light.
Time stood still as she mouthed her discontent for my eyes to behold. Each word thrust from her mouth like an epee, carefully and precisely piercing my soul further and further with each strike. My soul fell as blood to the floor as it seeped from the unseen wounds, seemingly staining the wood as an everlasting reminder of my crimes against humanity.
So began the ballet: she twirled about the kitchen, deftly dancing around the modern marvel of unfinished furniture, as she sung the song that would end the world in the name of deriding my very being. And when she was finished, nothing remained but the completed shelving unit which stood in all its miraculous beauty anew.
All the devil asked for its creation was an unwilling man’s corpse.
GORM. Now $29.99.
Oftentimes, dinner conversations with people in the city end up going down Tangent Road with the fervor of a New York City Taxi Cab driver shooting for a big tip. Last night, I happened to head out for dinner with some people from work, and we got onto the topic of copyright protection and piracy. After a bit of serious discussion, we ultimately ended up with the following resolution:
The movie script writes itself. A lovable loser who works for a software company just can’t afford all the nice things in life and has trouble in the dating scene. To make money on the side, he opens a movie pirating business, which becomes modestly successfully. A hard-nosed FBI detective working on piracy who just can’t find the man she likes but has just received a significant promotion.
Things finally start going right for the two as they find each other. All is looking up in the world. One night, when bringing the her home on a date, he decides to watch a movie with her. He pulls a movie from his large, pirated collection, only to find out that she’s an FBI agent. A whirlwind romance cast asunder, the two search for who they are and meaning in their lives with a hilarious bent: dramedy at its finest!
Starring Sandra Bullock as the hard-nosed but ultimately soft-hearted FBI agent and Zack Braff as the loveable loser, with a guest appearance from the “Don’t Copy That Floppy” guy.
The title? Finding Mr. Copy-Right!
And thus, my contribution to the future of Hollywood Cinema is complete. Why write a script when all you need is a winning pitch like this one? I’ll accept payment in the form of a personal cheque, Western Union money order, or Paypal.
Posted on 17 March '10 by Frank Caron, under Girls, Life, Love. No Comments.
Music has an incredible power. This is common knowledge. Music can instill emotion just as easily as it can trigger floods of forgotten memories. And like everyone else, I too am deeply affected by music. But my love for music is strange in that I happen to feel obscenely strong emotions from music that very few actually listen to. Thus, I present an experiment: “Aural.”
Turn your speakers up. Turn the lights off. And read.
People usually balk when I say that the music that moves me most is “trance.” They usually say something along the lines of, “Oh, you like techno.” Trance is a very different beast than most electronic music, and yet it is incredibly hard to pinpoint why exactly. I have a terribly tough time trying to articulate the reasons why I like trance. That’s why I’ve decided that I’m going to try a small experiment here.
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There once was a girl who had an apple tree. Every day, she would visit the tree. She’d climb his limbs, swing from his arms, and nestle in his trunk to sleep in the sun.
For 10 summers, she continued the ritual. She’d return every summer to see him—her tree. Until one year…
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