Great Scott, Mediocre Andrew
I realized the other day that every banal, insignificant comment or thought I've ever had can easily become more profound if I think of it as the opening sentence to a novel:
- Sadly, all my life, I have never been able to properly chop onions.
- He sure is taking a long time in the shower, I thought solemnly to myself.
- My mind raced as I desperately tried to coax the memories of who played the black guy on Matlock; by the end, I had given up all hope.
- When I came to, clothes scattered the ground and an unfamiliar stench wafted like a stiff breeze on a dead morning. My glasses had been placed in a rather unorthodox location. I had not a clue as to where, but my very sight was dependant upon their retrieval. This was it.
- Tossing, he tried to convince himself he could get away with hitting the snooze one more time. "This is the last time, I swear," begged his mind like a brother-in-law in need of quick cash. He'd heard that one before, though that did little to prevent him from slothfully reaching his left hand out from the covers and shutting off Hail To The Thief for another 6 minutes.
- As the naked women continued to bounce and sway on his laptop, suddenly Jack came to the realization that he should be searching for his backpack, not his towel.
- My last fart was truly tremendous, like a wave of foetor crying up for the heavens like so many lost souls. Bean burritoes tend to make me especially poetic, at least in the flatulence department.
Suddenly, my life is a book with an intricate and exciting plot that needn't actually go anywhere, so long as there is the implication it goes somewhere. Who knows, playing Tetris could lead to some gigantic and interesting misadventure, so long as it's phrased correctly.
- Sadly, all my life, I have never been able to properly chop onions.
- He sure is taking a long time in the shower, I thought solemnly to myself.
- My mind raced as I desperately tried to coax the memories of who played the black guy on Matlock; by the end, I had given up all hope.
- When I came to, clothes scattered the ground and an unfamiliar stench wafted like a stiff breeze on a dead morning. My glasses had been placed in a rather unorthodox location. I had not a clue as to where, but my very sight was dependant upon their retrieval. This was it.
- Tossing, he tried to convince himself he could get away with hitting the snooze one more time. "This is the last time, I swear," begged his mind like a brother-in-law in need of quick cash. He'd heard that one before, though that did little to prevent him from slothfully reaching his left hand out from the covers and shutting off Hail To The Thief for another 6 minutes.
- As the naked women continued to bounce and sway on his laptop, suddenly Jack came to the realization that he should be searching for his backpack, not his towel.
- My last fart was truly tremendous, like a wave of foetor crying up for the heavens like so many lost souls. Bean burritoes tend to make me especially poetic, at least in the flatulence department.
Suddenly, my life is a book with an intricate and exciting plot that needn't actually go anywhere, so long as there is the implication it goes somewhere. Who knows, playing Tetris could lead to some gigantic and interesting misadventure, so long as it's phrased correctly.
posted by MC Harv at 10:32 AM
1 Comments:
I think all those lit classes are bad for you. I used to do my own play by play commentary for a while For example:
"Kwong goes for the fridge. His hand darts inside. Bread is on the counter. Swings and manages to snag a block of cheese and NO TURKEY! Ouch, what a setback. That is going to make that sandwich bland and completely unsatisfying. I tell you, they are pissed in Chinatown tonight."
By, "used to," I - of course - meant, "to this day."
-Thomas
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