Why can't anyone clean the damn microwave?! God damn bunch of animals. I can't even identify some of the gunk stuck up on the top of the microwave and forget about the smells. I have been working in this shit-hole for way too long. God knows I deserve better than this. I feel as though this microwave is representative of the life I find myself stuck with these days: smelly, dirty, uncared for, and just plain gross. I've got to find a way out of this. I can't believe I am having this epiphany because of a damn microwave. It is always the most mundane shit that makes us see reality.
This is another blog post imported from my old fiction blog. It is from the second day of using my new tool for writing inspiration called the Writer's Toolbox. I recommend it to anyone who is looking for some new writing challenges.
I believe the "tool" or game used to write this post was something to do with the senses. I picked out prompts dealing with a dirty microwave, Paris in August, the taste of toothpaste and bats circling in the sky. Here's what I wrote based on that:February 16, 2009
I've been saving up for nothing it seems, but what the hell - I am going to Paris in August. I will give my son-of-bitch (and I mean that literally) boss his two weeks notice and then I am getting out of Dodge! I remember reading those Eloise books when I was little and always thinking Paris was the happiest place on Earth. This is it. This is a life-changer. Life begins in Paris. I could probably afford to stay a couple of weeks, maybe more. I hope I learned more French than I thought in Madame Renoi's class in high school. Why the hell did Jack have to be in that class, anyway? I might have paid attention more if I wasn't so busy trying to flirt with that stupid ass. Ah, but the smell of spring always brings back those memories of Jack... his curly black hair, his dark brown eyes, his ridiculous French accent. I wonder what he's up to these days.
I start thinking I'll look him up on facebook as I stare at myself in the mirror the next morning while brushing my teeth. I love the taste of toothpaste, only Colgate paste, of course, but I do love it. The minty clean and fresh taste makes me feel free to try anything, to taste anything. I imagine that the air of Paris smells and feel the way my toothpaste tastes: fresh and new. I can't wait, two weeks and counting. Today I am going to tell my boss.
I find him at his desk, of course - I've never seen that man move his lazy ass more than one foot radius around the desk at any point between nine and one and then again two through five. I walk right in, no knocking, no "excuse me"; not today, not now, this is going to be fucking monumental - I am quitting this shit. He barely notices me enter over his disgustingly sticky raspberry yogurt - are men supposed to eat that shit? That seems like such a feminine snack. He must be on, yet another quick-fix diet. They never work. He is a fat slob. I wouldn't be surprised if he is the asshole who dirties up the microwave and never cleans it up. I should ask him, right now, I've got nothing to lose.... I decide against it and just dive in. I make up some bullshit story that I got accepted into some study abroad program through the local community college. He eats my shit up. This is way too easy. He starts prattling on about some "fabulous" experience he had back in his college days and I quickly regret my tale. Was he just talking about bats? Bats circling in the sky? Where the fuck did this guy study abroad? Transylvania? Shit. Now I wish I was listening.