The Diary of A Simple Man
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in the "Peter Maranci" journal:[<< Previous 20 entries]
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12:20 pm
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Story idea
In a "pro-life" future, fetuses have been given full citizenship. By law, transparent windows are installed in all pregnant mothers so that the fetus can directly observe the outside world. A harness with robot arms is attached to every mother, wired so that the fetus can control the arms. Perhaps a fetus-controlled shock device is wired to every mother so that the fetus can force her to walk where the fetus demands.
The title of the story: "A Womb With A View".
Current Mood:  amused
Tags: fiction, humor
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07:42 pm
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Jolly old Joe Lieberman
Since Joe's giving a speech at the Republican convention tonight urging Americans to vote Republican, I thought I'd repost this with a bit of a revision; this is the version I just submitted to the New York Times.
(to the tune of "Jolly Old Saint Nicholas")
Jolly old Joe Lieberman
moral as can be;
he looks down on everyone
reeks of sanctity.
Never met a Democrat
that he didn't scorn;
he sure loves Republicans,
hates free speech and porn.
Jolly old Joe Lieberman
never went to war,
happy to send others there,
more and more and more.
Lobbyists for credit co's
call him their best friend;
they all wrote big checks for him,
we paid in the end.
Jolly old Joe Lieberman
kissed George Bush, alas,
now he spends his days and nights,
kissing Bush's...tuchis.
I wonder if they'll post it?
Current Location: Home
Current Mood:  hot
Tags: fiction, poem, politics
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10:12 am
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T Poem
This poem started writing itself in my head during my commute this morning. It may still need work, so I'm going to post it here and see if anything more develops in my brain. Your feedback would be welcome, of course.
The Mystery Train
The Mystery Train is a train of excitement,
With windows so clouded that you cannot see
The signs for the station that you might be passing
Or IF there's a station, or where it might be.
You stare in confusion at windows so frosted
An x-ray machine couldn't peer through the haze.
Is my stop coming up? Or have I just passed it?
Or am I a minotaur lost in a maze?
The conductors all thoughtfully aid in the mystery,
Never breathing a word which might pierce that dark veil
Where is the train going? Are we passing a station?
Was that blob Back Bay station, or was it Montvale?
If YOU want to ride on the train full of mystery
They're rolling along on the tracks every day
Pay your fare, hop on board, and soon you'll discover
Life is never a bore on the MBTA.
Or perhaps the last two lines should be
"You might never get to the place you were going,
But that's how it is on the MBTA."
...or something like that.
Current Mood: creative
Tags: commute, fiction, poem
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08:16 am
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Because
Salvatore Minella is at his favorite restaurant, dining on salmon. But he doesn't know that this particular salmon was a magic fish; she could talk. Her name was Ella.
Ella did not ask the fisherman who caught her to let her go because she couldn't speak English. She could only speak Fish. In any case, she wasn't feeling well that day. She was badly infected with Anisakis nematodes.
Current Mood:  quixotic
Current Music: Cream - Strange Brew
Tags: fiction, humor, weird
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05:41 am
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Dream Gift?
Why am I up now?
Because I haven't been sleeping well lately. Lots of dreams, weird ones, and frequent waking.
I just dreamed - very vividly - that I was reading a book. As I "read" it, I saw the images clearly. Somes were book illustrations, others were movie-style.
When I read the end, I said "Not bad. But I could have improved it."
Then I woke up. It was 5 AM on Sunday morning, and pitch dark. Slowly I realized that I hadn't read the story; I'd only dreamed it. And I knew that if I didn't get up right now and jot the idea down, I'd probably forget it by the time I woke up again later.
So I got up, turned on the computer, and wrote the idea down. The only problem is that now I'm awake. This is too damned early, and I'm too short of sleep, so I'm going to go back to bed and do my best to fall asleep again. Good night!
Current Location: Home
Current Mood:  sleepy
Tags: dreams, fiction
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01:44 pm
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Writing
This was going to be long; now it will be short.
About six months ago I was talking to someone very wise. I wished I could write, I told him. I wished I could break lose the logjam in my mind and get the words and stories out - stories good enough to be published.
"Have you tried?" he asked, simply.
You know, when he put it that way I had to admit that I hadn't!
I need to try.
Current Mood:  thoughtful
Tags: fiction
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10:04 am
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A Poem for David Broder
David Broder wrote yet another classic example of High Broderism today, deploring the lack of civility in Congress.
A Setback For Civility
I couldn't resist posting my comment in rhyme:
Civility, civility above all!
For when our checks and balances fall,
and congressional oversight goes to the wall,
a shared cup of tea is the perfect cure-all.
Let there be no Congressional complaint!
Such rough-shod ways make David Broder faint!
We should all sit hand in hand,
sipping tea (or is it sand?)
While democracy across the land
vanishes - or was it banned?
But let there be no ruckus, please!
Such crudities make Broder wheeze!
I should write more poetry, I think. It's fun.
Current Mood: creative
Tags: fiction, humor, link, poem, politics
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01:33 pm
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In A Dim Room
After reading an article in Salon about the high operating temperature of the iBook, including one letter from a reader whose iBook actually spontaneously combusted, I couldn't resist writing my own letter:
Subject: In A Dim Room
I was working with my new iBook in a dim room about a year ago. I really couldn't have anticipated what would happen; it was hardly my fault. Perhaps the warmth of the iBook on my thighs lulled me too much; perhaps it was the dim light, and the gentle whirring of the iBook's fan.
In any case, I woke from an odd dream about a tiger to find myself, the iBook, and the room in flames. The melting plastic of the case had charred itself to the skin of my thighs. In agony I attempted to pull the searing iBook off of my lap, but my fingers were charred to uselessness. As flames and acrid smoke rose from the keys, my eyes blurred and I felt consciousness fade.
And what happened then, you ask?
I died. It is a ghost who is writing this.
(Sorry, no offense meant to anyone - least of all Lord Dunsany. I just couldn't resist. :D)
Current Mood: chipper
Tags: fiction, letters
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03:18 pm
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You
You.
I'm going to get you. No matter what it takes, no matter what I must do...in the end, you will be mine.
In the beginning, I wasn't even aware of your existence. A miserable little nobody, a nothing living on the very edge of my domains. My minions there were all but useless, but still up to the task of ending your life, as was proper.
And that's when I first became aware of you. Because you came back.
Even then, I should have been more alert. All but my feeblest slaves could have crushed you; you were weak, young, and your equipment barely deserved the name.
None of it mattered. At the time I considered and then ignored the faint tremors, the rumors that something, some new force, had entered my world. And then the reports came more and more rapidly. An assault by a lone warrior on an outlying base; every defender killed. My local champions, puny compared to my greatest servants but powerful in their distant, depleted locations, falling prey to...what?
Legendary weapons released from ancient bindings. Ancient prophecies fulfilled. I have been master of the world long enough to read the signs. I knew what to do.
Or I thought that I did. Because each time you fell, each time your miserable life was brought to an end, you came back. Again, and again, and again.
How did you do it? I still do not understand - not yet! - but even then I recognized it for what it was: the ultimate power. For no matter what I did, no matter how utterly you were destroyed, the end was the same.
You came back.
You feared some of my forces; I know it. I watched you hide from them, dodge them, momentarily retreat only to return. Death seemed to mean something to you. But what? What fear does death hold for something that cannot die?
Implacable. Unstoppable. You pierced each veil of protection, each circle of power, each impregnable base...becoming more powerful with every step. Wielding weapons and tools of unimaginable power. Step by step, inch by inch, I could not help but know your final destination, your final goal: me. Here, amidst the awe, terror, and might of my ultimate fortress, I knew that we would meet. And one of us would die.
But if it was you, what would happen then?
It happened, just as I knew it would. My mightiest servants fell in my defense. You fell, too, only to rise again. But they, my creatures of darkness and despair...for them, the end was forever. Not for you.
As you rose and burst through my every defense, blazing destruction towards the very core of my being, I gazed at your true essence...and could not comprehend you at all.
What are you?
Darkness fell.
And then...
And then all was as it was before. For a while, a fog lay on my thoughts; something troubled me, but I could not remember what. And then, slowly, it came back to me. I had been here before. This world, this glorious playground for my damned warriors and twisted children, had been mine before, and taken from me. And so I began my search.
There you are; so far away. Innocent, childlike, puny and weak. And yet containing a power more vast than my universe.
This time, I'll learn. I'll study, and watch. And somehow, someday...you will be mine. I will hold your power, tame it, and take it into myself. If not this time, the next. Or the next. Whatever it takes.
From the heart of my burning darkness, from the searing fire that is my heart, I make this promise.
I'm going to get you.
Current Mood: creative
Tags: fiction
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08:32 am
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Behind the curtain
Since 41° 59' , -71° 31', rising was such a failure (so far, no one who has read it has gotten it), I'm going to do something that a writer should never do, and explain. Then maybe someone can tell me where I went wrong.
( Read more... )
So it goes.
Current Mood: pointless
Current Music: Squeeze - Take Me I'm Yours
Tags: fiction
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02:54 pm
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41° 59' , -71° 31', rising
The cold morning light seeped past my eyelids, and I knew that I was awake.
Sighing, I sat halfway up and peered over at the alarm clock.
Half an hour early? That's too much. But I know I'm not going to be able to get back to sleep. Might as well get an early start on the day, maybe even take an early train to work.
I reached to switch off the alarm, and -
Something's wrong with my wrist.
A stain? Blood? But it doesn't hurt.
I can move it. No pain. But there's a big dark patch on my inner wrist.
Squinting, I turn on the light.
This can't be real.
My skin is...transparent? It is. I can see through it. I hold it right under the light.
Close my eyes. A dream? is this a dream? Breathe. Feel. If this is a dream, it's the realest one I've ever had. And I've had some incredibly realistic ones. Okay, provisionally this is not a dream.
But what IS it?
That's not what a wrist looks like. I'm no doctor, but I've seen medical illustrations and I know that this isn't right. Hell, I'd know this was wrong just from having felt my own wrists before.
I'm not brown and streaky white inside. And I don't have all those weird, rounded bones. With...ugh...ropy strands of brown tendon running through and around them.
Yuck.
They move. Creepy. I move my wrist, and they move inside it. I touch my wrist...does it feel different? I can't decide.
What am I supposed to do now?
I looked at it for a while. I felt it.
The skin is definitely there, I just can't see it. Can't see any veins or blood, either. Is there an artery in the wrist? I'm pretty sure there is. Of course there is. I can't see it or feel it, though. Maybe this is a dream.
But if it isn't, this is really something. I've got to do something. I - something's happening.
And before I knew it, the skin on my wrist had suddenly swirled into visibility. I froze.
After a long pause, I felt my wrist.
Normal. Pulse? There. But...that was no dream. Was it?
I thought often about that morning during the next few days. Sometimes I felt my wrist, wondering what was inside. But it felt totally normal, just as it always had. I thought about getting an x-ray, but what would I tell the doctor? Ridiculous.
Somehow, I wasn't surprised when it happened again four days later.
It wasn't my wrist that time. It was my mouth. As soon as I opened it, a beam of blue light blasted out, so bright that the rest of the dim room went dark and spots danced in my eyes. For a minute I thought I'd gone Cyclops, and was blasting the room, but the beam was silent and wasn't doing any damage. It was pretty amazing, though; almost intolerably bright, so bright that I couldn't see the inside my mouth with a mirror.
I played with the light for a little while. When it went away, I checked the time: as best as I could figure it, the effect had lasted for about twenty-four to twenty-seven minutes. And then I could have kicked myself; why hadn't I thought to take a picture?
After that, I slept with the camera beside my bed.
A week later I woke with a start in the pale light, an unpleasant echo in my ears. The sound went on, though, a nasty, snarling kind of grumble that I suddenly realized was coming from my stomach. I put my hand on my belly, only to be met with a burning, agonizing pain. Something was slicing into and gripping the base of my thumb. Panicked, I pulled hard - and felt white fire surge up my arm as I ripped my hand free.
The wound was ugly, but not too bad. Pressing it tightly, I headed to the bathroom for a band-aid.
Once I'd doctored it, I turned to the mirror and gingerly pulled up my t-shirt from the sides.
A face. A...huge rat face. On my stomach.
It's snarling, and mumbling, and hairless. Look at those teeth.
I stood there and stared in horror until the sunlight touched my window and the face disappeared.
My t-shirt was still torn and bloody, and so was my hand. But that didn't prove anything. And what would be the point of trying to prove anything, anyway? What could anyone do?
It wasn't until a day later that I remembered where I'd seen the rat face on my stomach before: in my dreams. And with a shock, I realized that the two earlier episodes had been from my dreams, too. In retrospect, it was amazing that I hadn't realized that immediately, the first morning.
And then I had another realization: in the shock and pain of the bite I had completely forgotten to take any pictures!
The bite healed cleanly over the next few days. The fear faded more slowly, but after a week passed I was able to sleep without too much fear.
My eyes flew open; I knew right away that it had happened again. For a moment fear flashed through me. And then I sat up, and it was obvious. My hands, so small. My arms, so slender and hairless. No beard. My clothes hung loosely on me, practically falling off.
I ran to the mirror and saw my nine-year-old self grinning at me.
Just a moment's pause, and then I grabbed the tightest, stretchiest shorts and t-shirt that I owned and scrambled into them. Run down the stairs and out the door. If I was quick enough, I could make it to the playground in time.
My body felt light as air. No stiffness, no aches, just me. I practically flew down the street. I'd been a 50-yard-dash champ, and that morning I broke my record.
It was worth it. I had ten minutes at the playground; ten minutes that I wouldn't have traded for anything else in the world. I was high on the swing when the first gold of dawn touched the trees. My heart broke at that moment...but fortunately I was able to hang on to the chains and make it safely to the ground.
And walked, slowly and heavily along the empty streets, back home to get dressed and go to work.
Nothing happened for the next nine days.
And then - now - it's morning, and I know. I know this feeling. It's what I've been waiting for, all my life.
I float upward, and my heart has never been so full in my life.
No point in wasting time going downstairs to the door. The window - there. Out.
Oh. Oh.
It's so perfect. It's so real. Everything is so clear, and it feels just the way it should. A few minutes to drift over the house-tops, just savoring this cool morning air, the lovely pale light - oh. Of course. The sun will be up soon. There's not much time.
Up, then. I'm going to see just how high I can go.
Tags: fiction
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09:03 pm
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Undeserving 1 & 2
I wish I were a nobleman;
I'd be a worthy knight.
I'd serve the cause of chivalry,
sword keen, and honor bright.
But instead I am a peasant.
I live down in the shit.
I think I'll take this pitchfork out,
and stab some noble git.
* * *
I am the soul of chivalry;
A knight both brave and true.
I'm courteous to every man,
and give my lord his due.
I champion the fairer sex.
I bow to every lass.
And that, my lord, is why I've got
this pitchfork in my ass.
(I hope nobody minds, but I wanted to put them together in the right order.)
Tags: fiction, humor, poem
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12:07 am
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Undeserving #2
I am the soul of chivalry;
A knight both brave and true.
I'm courteous to every man,
and give my lord his due.
I champion the fairer sex.
I bow to every lass.
And that, my lord, is why I've got
this pitchfork in my ass.
Tee hee! 
Current Mood: happy
Tags: fiction, humor, poem
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02:21 pm
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Undeserving
I wish I were a nobleman;
I'd be a worthy knight.
I'd serve the cause of chivalry,
sword keen, and honor bright.
But instead I am a peasant.
I live down in the shit.
I think I'll take this pitchfork out,
and stab some noble twit.
[Juvenile, I know. This is the sort of thing I might have written 25 years ago. I made it up while working out because my mp3 player died unexpectedly.]
[For the last word, an acceptable alternative would be "git". What do you think?]
Current Mood: quirky
Tags: fiction, humor, poem
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01:25 pm
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Grand Obsession (v. 2.0, complete)
( Read more... )
Current Mood: creative
Current Music: Suzanne Vega - Ironbound/Fancy Poultry
Tags: fiction
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11:47 pm
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Grand Obsession, Part 4 (Final)
(continued from part 1, part 2, and part 3)
( Read more... )
- end -
Current Mood: creative
Tags: fiction
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11:24 pm
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Grand Obsession, Part 3
(continued from part 1 and part 2)
( Read more... )
Next: The big night. I expect the next section to be the end.
Current Mood: creative
Tags: fiction
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10:31 pm
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Grand Obsession (part 2)
(continued from part 1)
On weekends he watched the children. Had there always been that many? Had he just not noticed before? There were so many. Playing ball, running around in the street, and never, never once looking before they ran out. Where were their parents? What was wrong with them?
There was one who couldn't be over two years old who ran - toddled, really - and wore diapers. Diapers and nothing else, not even shoes, in that filthy street filled with broken glass. Once in a while a couple of adults stood within eyeshot, but they were obviously paying almost no attention, even as cars sped by. Ed found himself so filled with bewilderment that it hurt. Why?
He hadn't had a lot of friends, but the few he'd had drifted away. Or he drifted away from them. They hadn't been that close anyway, so he didn't mind much. Besides, they wouldn't understand. He'd broached the subject with Jim, the closest of his friends, and Jim had looked at him, not so much as if he were insane, but as if he'd made a comment about the price of wheat in Spain. Meaningless.
Things got pretty confused over the weeks and months, and Ed was never quite sure when the idea hit him. It was probably at night; somewhere early on he found he'd lost the ability to sleep through the sound of a passing car. At the start it was just the speeders that woke him, but before long any passing car had him gasping awake, sweating and shaking.
At first it was just a fantasy. He'd show them. He'd teach them a lesson they would never, ever forget. How would they feel, how would they like it, if they really did hit a child?
If he could find a child-sized doll, hide between cars, and throw it in front of a speeder...now that would teach them a lesson.
It didn't stay a fantasy for long.
But as time passed, he started seeing...problems. A doll wouldn't move right, wouldn't look natural enough. He might startle a speeding driver, but he wouldn't burn a nightmare into their soul.
So Ed found himself doing research. He quickly established that an inflatable doll of some sort would be the best starting point, and it seemed a heaven-sent sign when a novelty catalog that he picked up on the bus turned out to have a life-sized inflatable Harry Potter for sale at a reasonable price. He ordered three, figuring that he might lose one or two by experimenting.
But a child hit by a car needed to have some mass, and it needed to bleed. Ketchup was no good; the smell would be an instant giveaway. Likewise, red food coloring in water would lack the characteristic smell of blood...and he needed that.
In fact, he needed blood. A fair amount of it. Nothing else would do. He still needed to work out how he'd use it, but the first step was to get a decent quantity of blood.
Eventually he remembered a sign he'd seen in Portuguesetown: LIVE POULTY FRESH KILLED.
Just to be on the safe side, he did a quick Google. The fifth result for "chicken blood" was "Chicken Blood Rice", which was, to his amazement, a traditional Portuguese recipe! Ed felt a flush of vindication. Finally things were going his way.
The place smelled...strange. The woman behind the counter was fat, and had a mole. But her English was excellent, and she didn't seem at all surprised by his request for eight pints of chicken blood. He'd thought about it carefully, and decided that requesting pints sounded less suspicious than gallons. And he could always come back for more. Blood was dirt cheap.
Ed's first thought was to fill the doll with a sort of blood gelatin. Unflavored gelatin was cheap and easy to get, and he went so far as to pick up a box of a hundred packets. But he wasn't at all sure that you could make gelatin by simply replacing water with blood in the instructions, and a few abortive experiments revealed a more serious problem: the blood gelatin was just too heavy. Harry (as Ed thought of him) would simply collapse if he was filled with blood gelatin - that is, assuming he didn't split at the seams.
Could he work up some sort of internal support structure?
He could cut open the doll - in fact, he'd have to, which is why he'd bought a number of vinyl repair kits - and insert some sort of bony structure. The best solution would be to get some sort of skeleton, of course. That could add a huge dollop of realism to the project. It would be hard to find something that was close enough to the right size, though. And he'd have to make an enormous hole in Harry; he'd have to cut him open pretty much from the crotch down to the instep of both feet. The repairs might not hold for the short time he'd have to stand Harry up before flinging him in front of a car.
Wait. Could he freeze Harry? That would give him the internal support he'd need! He could still pack in some chicken or beef bones, enough to enhance the post-accident gore and horror without making it necessary to build or insert an elaborate skeletal structure.
But frozen gelatin wouldn't look or smell right; children aren't filled with frozen blood, after all. Stalemate.
What about selective freezing, of just the joints? Say. with a simplified bony structure - maybe he could buy some large beef bones, and fasten them together somehow. Perhaps with dry ice applied at the right points, he could get Harry to stand up, or at least not look completely unrealistic...
But Ed had worked too hard on the project to fool himself. Harry just wouldn't fly, not that way. The weight problem was killing him.
The answer, when it came, was simple and obvious.
Tags: fiction
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10:46 pm
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Grand Obsession
[I started writing this a few days ago, and was interrupted. I kept trying to get back to it, but one thing after another interrupted. So now I'm posting the first part as is, and will post the next part soon. It's a short story, by the way.]
It hadn't been an obession, to start. In fact, he'd hardly noticed it. But sometime in the second week at his new apartment, Ed Rakubian realized that he'd heard the same dull thumpaTHUMPathumpaTHUMP before...coupled with the same roar of an engine down the street, now that he thought of it.
It sparked instant annoyance. He knew he'd moved into a slum - it was all he could afford after losing his job - but he hadn't expected it to be, well, so slummy.
Besides, he'd seen KIDS playing on the street - that afternoon, come to think of it!
That pissed him off. It was bad enough that those damn teenagers were blasting their crappy music at all hours of the day and night, but they were zooming down the street at sixty or seventy miles an hour, at least - and the speed limit was twenty-five miles per hour.
It ruined his evening.
The next morning Ed called the police department.
"-artment, front desk, Officer DeBlaise speaking."
"Hello? I'm calling about the speeders on Oakdale street."
"What about them?"
"Well, it's a twenty-five mile-per-hour zone. They're going fifty or sixty miles per hour, at least!"
"...so what would you like us to do about it, sir?"
Ed's stomach clenched. The "sir" definitely sounded sarcastic.
"Look, there are kids who play in the street there all day. There must be something you can do! I mean, I mean, couldn't you put out one of those speed-detecting machines, at least?"
He definitely heard an exasperated sigh this time. "...those don't work, sir. Not in a neighborhood like yours. Somebody would just shoot it up for fun. Or steal it."
Ed began to feel desperate.
"Well...look...I'm not a police officer. But you must have SOME way to do something about this. How about speed bumps? Or put a police car on the street for a few days, and write some tickets?"
"We don't do speed bumps, sir, and the force is overworked as it is. Tell you what: give me your name and address, and I'll take a complaint from you. That's the best I can do."
Ed hung up, his hands shaking. Goddamned cops, he thought.
Things only got worse over the next couple of weeks. Ed knew he shouldn't watch, but he kept finding himself back at the windowshade, watching kids - some couldn't have been older than two or three - playing, running in the street without so much as glancing either way. Hearing cars zoom down, speakers blasting, louder and louder. He found himself waking up at night each time a car went down the street. And it was driving him crazy. At work he was distracted and irritable, imagining the thud of a car slamming into a child's body, the little form tossed high into the air, blood spurting, and crashing soddenly to the ground.
He'd always liked kids.
Current Mood: groggy
Current Music: Depeche Mode - Master and Servant
Tags: fiction
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01:49 pm
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The Obvious Conclusion
After decades of observing the human race, I have found myself unable to avoid an obvious conclusion: pretty girls have all the luck.
Don't think so? Well, how about this:
When there aren't enough seats on a train, who has to stand all the way home - the pretty girl, or the ugly fat guy?
When their arms are full of packages, who gets the door held for them - the pretty girl, or the ugly fat guy?
Who gets more smiles? More "hello"s? More "thank you"s?
In decades - DECADES - of going to the gym, I, your token ugly fat guy, have been ignored by the trainers hundreds of times. Today, for the fourth time in a row, I was ignored during the scheduled "X-press Line" time, during which club trainers are supposed to set up machines for all users. Somehow they missed me...over and over and over. But let a pretty girl come NEAR a machine, and two or three trainers will be panting all over themselves to help her in any way possible.
Even the female trainers - pretty girls themselves - ignore fat ugly guys and go out of their way to help other pretty girls.
Who do children love more: their mothers, or their fat and ugly fathers? Do I really need to ask?
When the departmental managers are talking behind closed doors about company budget cuts, and the question comes up: "Who shall we let go? The pretty girl, or the ugly fat guy?", whose bloated, flabby neck gets stretched out on the chopping block?
Mine!
Who gets flowers? Who gets chocolates? Who gets taken out to dinner? Who gets a million fucking comments on their journals?
All of this leads me to a very clear and rational decision:
I have decided to become a 17-year-old girl.
I'll be pretty, of course, with long red hair, bright green eyes, and golden skin. I'll stand 5'7", weigh 123 lbs., and my measurements will be 37-24-36, if you were wondering (a "C" cup, or possibly a "D" depending on my mood). Perhaps I'll have a piercing somewhere secret on my body, and let people go crazy trying to figure out where. I'll have a lovely singing voice with a wide range. I'll smell good. People will want to be around me. They'll write to me, talk to me, call me on the phone.
They'll send me presents. Anything my heart desires.
I'll have exhibitionistic tendencies, and frequently post photos of myself in various states of undress. To make myself extra interesting I'll have an odd problem or two - got to keep the boys hopping (and hoping), after all. Perhaps I'll have PMS, or depression, or be allergic to peanuts, or something like that. One thing's for sure, I'll get plenty of sympathy. I'll get more sympathy for a stubbed toe than your typical fat and ugly guy will get for getting diagnosed with terminal cancer on the same day his entire family is axe-murdered and eaten by cannibals.
This new me will benefit everyone! There will be one less fat ugly guy in the world, and one more pretty girl - a definite plus, both ways. I, myself, will presumably become unable to see ugly fat guys myself (that's a power I've noticed that pretty girls have), so my world will become more beautiful. Only the most attractive people will vie for my attention. The rest will skulk in lonely, well-deserved misery and isolation.
But I won't have to feel bad about their suffering. I won't even know that they exist! So there won't ever be any reason for even the slightest hint of a frown of pity or sadness on my pretty face.
The greatest tragedy I'll ever have to face will be...come to think of it, there won't be any tragedies in my life!
I'll wear pretty clothes, and have a large circle of fans dedicated to my every whim. I shall never want, never be lonely, never lack for a back rub or foot rub.
Yes. I shall become a girl. It's really the best option for everyone.
As long as I get to keep my penis, of course.
Current Mood: amused
Current Music: The Soggy Bottom Boys - Man of Constant Sorrow
Tags: angst, fiction, humor
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