87
Good Living
0
terms
3
notes
88
My best turf was Blue Island, way down Western Avenue, where addresses had five-digit numbers, as though the town was far back of the long line of people waiting to enter downtown paradise. I got along pretty well with the Blue Islanders. They could quickly recognize the indelible lousiness of my job; they offered me food and water; once I nearly got laid. They did not waste their time contemplating the purpose of human life; their years were spent as a tale is told: slowly, steadily, approaching the inexorable end. In the meantime, all they wanted was to live, wisely use what little love they had accrued, and endure life with the anesthetic help of television and magazines. I happened to be in their neighborhood to offer the magazines.
omg lol
My best turf was Blue Island, way down Western Avenue, where addresses had five-digit numbers, as though the town was far back of the long line of people waiting to enter downtown paradise. I got along pretty well with the Blue Islanders. They could quickly recognize the indelible lousiness of my job; they offered me food and water; once I nearly got laid. They did not waste their time contemplating the purpose of human life; their years were spent as a tale is told: slowly, steadily, approaching the inexorable end. In the meantime, all they wanted was to live, wisely use what little love they had accrued, and endure life with the anesthetic help of television and magazines. I happened to be in their neighborhood to offer the magazines.
omg lol
90
“But he works out a lot,” the priest said. “Absent in spirit, but present in body.”
I had a selection of magazines just for Michael, I said. Men’s Health, Shape, Self, Body + Soul, all of them covering a wide range of interests: workout regimens, fitness tips, diets, et cetera.
“Michael!” the priest hollered. “Would you like a subscription to Body and Soul?”
“Fuck you,” Michael screamed back.
The priest finished his Scotch and pushed himself awkwardly up from the couch to reach the bottle. I was tempted to help him.
“If there were a magazine called Selfishness,” he grumbled, “Michael would be editor in chief.”
He refilled the glass and returned into the depth of the couch. He scratched his dome and a flock of skin flakes fluttered up in its orbit.
“Michael wants to be an actor, you see. He is nothing if not vanity and vexation,” the priest said. “But he has only managed to be a fluffer in the odd adult movie. And to tell you the truth, I cannot see a future in fluffing for him.”
lmao
“But he works out a lot,” the priest said. “Absent in spirit, but present in body.”
I had a selection of magazines just for Michael, I said. Men’s Health, Shape, Self, Body + Soul, all of them covering a wide range of interests: workout regimens, fitness tips, diets, et cetera.
“Michael!” the priest hollered. “Would you like a subscription to Body and Soul?”
“Fuck you,” Michael screamed back.
The priest finished his Scotch and pushed himself awkwardly up from the couch to reach the bottle. I was tempted to help him.
“If there were a magazine called Selfishness,” he grumbled, “Michael would be editor in chief.”
He refilled the glass and returned into the depth of the couch. He scratched his dome and a flock of skin flakes fluttered up in its orbit.
“Michael wants to be an actor, you see. He is nothing if not vanity and vexation,” the priest said. “But he has only managed to be a fluffer in the odd adult movie. And to tell you the truth, I cannot see a future in fluffing for him.”
lmao
92
We waited in the overwhelming silence, the priest closing his eyes, anticipating a punch. But Michael could not think of one more thing to say, so he finally said nothing, turned on his heel, and marched out, not bothering to slam the door this time. The priest grabbed a couch pillow and started banging it against his forehead, howling and hissing in pain. I took the opportunity to slither toward the open door.
“Wait,” he wailed. “I want to subscribe. I want subscription. Wait a minute.”
We waited in the overwhelming silence, the priest closing his eyes, anticipating a punch. But Michael could not think of one more thing to say, so he finally said nothing, turned on his heel, and marched out, not bothering to slam the door this time. The priest grabbed a couch pillow and started banging it against his forehead, howling and hissing in pain. I took the opportunity to slither toward the open door.
“Wait,” he wailed. “I want to subscribe. I want subscription. Wait a minute.”