Caffeine: morning cup + midmorning iced latte
Evil Calories: melty yummy dark chocolate thingys
Reality TV: Project Runway
So, on we go with Tell Me What To Do. Next in line is the prompt by the lovely and talented Amy Ellis. Now, since Ms. Ellis knows me SO well, I tried to give this something she wouldn't be expecting. Although, seeing as she's known me since I was in diapers, I'm not sure if I could surprise her.
I also took this opportunity to give a little shout-out to my favorite writer of all time, Charles Dickens. If you're not familiar with the particular piece I referenced, you might be thoroughly confused. Then again, if you're not familiar with the particular piece I referenced, you might need to be slapped several times, as it is one of the best pieces of literature ever written. Get thee to a library!
So, you know, usual disclaimer...first draft, bag-o-poo and all that. Bla, bla, bla, here we go...
Original prompt from Amy Ellis
I knew this would be an interesting day when I discovered that the barista had put espresso in my chai and that some smart ass had tinkered with my Pandora, replacing my regular Cure station with Toby Keith.
And my take:
I knew this would be an interesting day when I discovered that the barista had put espresso in my chai and that some smart ass had tinkered with my Pandora, replacing my regular Cure station with Toby Keith. My first thought was to shut my computer and jump out the window. Too risky, though. Surely one of the drones from quality control would see me and I’d be written up for violating code.
I smacked the delete button, sending Toby Keith into oblivion. I’m surrounded by dimwits, but there’s one in particular who would willingly sink low enough to trifle with my daily dose of 80’s Goth. If I had half the energy that I used to, I’d seek some refreshing form of revenge. Force good old Fritz to re-think all his clever little ideas.
Conjure a hair-thinning spell. Call child services about those annoying brats he always has with him. Ignorance and Want. Please. He thinks we don’t see them parading around in designer Wellies?
It may seem tacky to accuse the Ghost of Christmas Present of foul play, but despite what people think, he’s not all jolly insights and bountiful feasts of roasted pig and pistachio pudding. Like most spirits in his class, he fancies himself quite the prankster, and a charmer to boot. Most of the girls in accounting eat it right up. I, on the other hand, have the overwhelming desire to cram that blazing cornucopia up his ass every time we have a run in.
There was a time when I was a revered spirit. I certainly didn’t have to clout that X had - in all his nine feet of glory, shrouded in layers of black, face hidden, wielding that creepy, boney finger – but I held my own. I was the first. I set the tone, saddled with the overwhelming responsibility to make the whole “you’re being haunted by three spirits on Christmas Eve” believable. It takes a certain charm to convince people in one moment that they aren’t dreaming, and to get them to cling to your robe while you fly around London in the next. I’d like to see Fritz try it and not wedge himself between the shutters with that enormous gut of his.
Part of the problem is that I hate my job. It used to be much easier to convince people they were bad. Show them a few shifty things they’d done in their past and they where well on their way to rehabilitation. But now people aren’t just bad, they’re dumb as shit. I have to find numerous ways to explain why it’s unfortunate to sue your own mother because she accidentally hit your car while she was having a seizure. It takes all the patience I can conjure to not dump them headfirst into the Island Barn reservoir.
I sipped my tainted chai and read through my inbox. Full day. CEO in Whitechapel who disowned his gay son, landlord in Fullham who evicted a woman with breast cancer. Hum drum, la-dee-da.
Until I looked closer. Waiting patiently at the bottom of all the drivel was an email, with the subject “change of heart...bring on the chains!”. Sender, email@example.com.