The Drastic Choice

His hand wasn’t sweaty. His legs didn’t tremble. The make up in his face, it wasn’t ruined or touched, and there was not even a bit of regret running in his veins. He really wanted to do it, he was convinced. He raised his arm, the gun in hand, and he felt a touch of relieve. He was finally ending this. He was going away. Away. He even smiled a bit. It seemed like the world around him, everything was gone or worthless. The audience shrieking and clapping continually, the voice of happy workers, the acrobats, the other clowns. His mind, it was quiet. He desired it.

Before allowing himself to think about the once beautiful world he was leaving behind, a piercing noise was heard and it was all done. With just the pull of a trigger.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

It was my turn. It was soon to be. And yet, I went the other direction, and I knew the boss would be crazed and red as hell, but I didn’t care. At all. One of the co-workers called my name, but I just kept walking. Though I had already changed into my costume, and had my face retouched, I felt pretty calm. Suddenly I didn’t care so much about my absence, about the soon-to-be-disappointed kids seating in the audience. It was my life, acting all stupid and retarded and making people laugh, and feeling important. But I wasn’t feeling important, not at all. Suddenly being a clown wasn’t really pleasant.

Everything was pathetic. Pathetic. My life. I used to be happy, I thought, walking out the huge canvas tent into an obscure sky. But now there was something missing. Like this really huge gap that made my stomach get all rickety. I thought about my losses. My job. It wasn’t a loss, but it surely was to be. But I kind of deserve it in all its misery. Mostly because I’ve never been an anxious, dedicated person. My wife. Surely, she was not entirely my wife. The relationship, the marriage, we were both drunk and young. You might be beautiful when young, but you’re surely stupid. I have always been modest, and so I don’t consider myself to be smart, now. I didn’t have any kids, and my family, it was there, but not.

I walked around, back and forth, and thought of me. Of my life. So normal, plain, stupid, worthless. I felt sad, extremely sad. Didn’t felt like crying, because there was even scarce of water. Trying not to depress myself too much, I think about its good aspects, despite my pessimism. I was happy. I enjoyed the shows I made, the mistakes, meant to be, and the times in which I had gotten dirty of cake, and whipped cream. My friends, their jobs as bizarre as mine, we snickered and enjoyed cheap beer on whichever place we landed, and dreamed of gorgeous ladies and tons of money.

That was not really happiness. It was more like an excuse to forget real life. Sure it worked. But to forget? Pathetic. Life is here, I thought, and I was just being a coward for trying to avoid it. So what if my life was sad and horrible? Was it even horrible? My payment wasn’t much, but it wasn’t bad. I had grown a belly, but I wasn’t ugly.

I had to be patient, I thought. Sure, I was never a patient person. But it really ends when life ends. Death. And so, for the rest of my life, I’d have to seat somewhere and waits for Death.

Though I didn’t expect them, the words of my boss came to my mind. Ya’ know, in case of any asshole tryin’ to ruin our show. He had bought it not so long ago, but when we saw it, it looked pretty real. And he had placed it in some drawer, within the tent.

I ran back, into the boss’ office, and I open the drawer, and there are some papers, and knick knacks and cash. And effectively, this very attractive box. And I opened it, and it was like finding a plane ticket, when road tripping to the other side of the country.

Italy, McDonalds and Paul

“He’s American. Seriously, we all have the same face. It’s not even funny.” He said and pointed at this nearby blonde kid, with green eyes. “He’s Italian. He’s in my Math class and he speaks all funny.” I answered, biting a piece of my apple.

Paul wasn’t feeling like going home that afternoon. Me neither. It’s not that I hated my family, but I just felt like staying. Paul needed help in Math, but he hadn’t brought his workbook. And so now we were both sitting by the soccer field, staring and pointing at people.

“You believe you can tell an awful lot about people by their looks.” I told Paul. He was a bit stubborn, and a true-born leader. He had lived here all his life but I had just met him last year. He was all political-like, and liked to analyze things, though everything he said was mostly wrong.

“But what do you know about this Italian kid? Maybe he’s just faking the accent.” Paul said reasonably. Maybe he wasn’t, though. “Nah.” I said simply. More apple. Paul looked around a couple of times. “Perhaps his family is from Italy. Perhaps he was born here. Maybe he eats more McDonalds than we do.” He insisted. He never gave up. And this was good, till some point.

“He has the accent of his parents, though. And he was raised the Italian way. His house is like a smaller version of Italy.” Truly, I was just babbling. Unlike Paul, I didn’t like to get all philosophical about kids I didn’t know. “So if your house is like a smaller version of China you’re Chinese.”

“You’re not Chinese, but you might be educated like one. Because you are influenced by your surroundings.” Paul had this way of understanding things that just confused them up a bit more. This, I said with a bit of desperation in my voice. Because we were supposed to be studying Math, right now.

“What is the difference?” He wasn’t totally confused. Just curious. I know he wasn’t doing this to get me angry, but rather because he really cared about it…a bit. “There are Chinese people and people who are not Chinese but they act like one of them. Because they have been influenced ‘Chinese-ly’ sometime during their lives.” Breath in, breath out. More apple.

“Huh, interesting. How do you think they are influenced? Like what they wear and the music they hear—” “And the food they eat. That affected them too.” I finished, afraid that he might come up with any other option, that might lead us to more discussion. But Paul proved me wrong, and brusquely responded to my food comment. “Food? Come on, do you really think there are people who have enough dedicated as to cook Chinese everyday? I bet even Chinese people try hot dogs every once in a while!” Not logical, and not funny. Therefore, worthless. “Well, they prepare the food, every once in a while. They vary between hot dog and Chinese. Paul, the dialogue, though, that is what influences them the most.” The dialogue. Sure, there was nothing bizarre about that.

“Yes, I agree. Sometime, the weird noises and vowels and words they use stick up on them. Like these Italian boy. So I was right! Perhaps he isn’t really Italian, perhaps he’s just influences by the Italian culture!”

For a moment I thought Paul was going to jump up and down because of closing the circle. I was happy too, for I didn’t have to keep talking. I was done with the apple, and laid on the grass, and closed my eyes.

“You know, now that I think about it, perhaps I am a bit of a Latino. Because my mom has this statues that she brought from her trip to Guatemala, and she likes to sing in Spanish, a lot. Sometimes I even hum the music as well!”

Latino. I had to give up, and noticed that it was hard to talk complicated with Paul. “Paul, wait! You’re talking about that kid? He’s not Italian, I was just confusing him with the other guy in my class. I think he is American.”

Bus Ride Perception

That day, she climbed up the stairs, and found the small bus to be completely full. It was awfully quite, though, because there were no little kids. The tightness was still unbearable, and she had been seconds away to turn back, and run back inside, and get into the messy bed, and be alone.

It seemed years before she found a seat, if a seat is what you call it, because already very close to the window was this little boy seating. She just removed her backpack, and sat, and tried to be unnoticeable. She wasn’t intimidated by the boy, or anything, but she did notice him a little nervous. Shut up, you little dork, she thought before realizing the bus was quiet as hell. This was the only seat available, and it’s too bad you have to share. She had never been much of a mean person. Her mind, though, it was mean.

The best was to ignore the boy. So she looked towards the other side, into the sidewalk, so huge, somehow, so filled with air, and suddenly she noticed she wanted to walk to school, from now on. Because she didn’t want for her daily rides to be filled with lack of air, and weird window-viewers. In the sidewalk, jolly people—jolly, it seemed—walked by, some where running, their dog following happily behind.

There were small parks, and though she’d never used them before, she wanted to try them now, and the grass looked so comfy, as in comfier-than-the-bus-seat comfy. The smell within the bus was harsh, and gasoline-like. The noise, much worse. Every once is a while it seemed the vehicle had learned to breathe, and so it decreased in speed, and sighed, and increased once more. She thought now it was old and pathetic. It certainly didn’t seem it was going much faster than the people walking parallel.

The bus came to a stop, and for a spilt second she pictured a stranded bus, in her head. But there was a person—a boy—mounting the bus, and that meant good news. More than that. This boy, he was not so tall, but thin enough, and his eyes were small and round and his hair like a true brunette, and a charming smile. Suddenly, she forgot about hating the bus, and the weird kids, and ignored the smell and the sound, now so quiet.

He started walking towards the backseat, and there were truly no more spaces left. She looked at the small boy, still stuck to the window, and she thought no more about his well-being.

She didn’t want to make the wrong noise, so she gestured for him to come and seat. He smiled, and nodded, and said thanks. And she loved his tone of voice. To think she had been worrying about who and how many sat next to her.

“I’m Sunny. Nice to meet you.” She herself made the little boy scoot over so he could come and seat next to her. Forget the tightness and stress. Suddenly, bus rides had never been better.

To Eat Food and Nerves

The dishes are set before us. I am not hungry, though. She picks up her fork and digs into the food. She doesn’t dig, no. She’s more than that. She’s eating whatsoever, and I try to do something sane. But the food doesn’t look any good. I breathe in and out, and though I am sweating like crazy I smile at her, as to tell her everything is fine. She smiles back, and eats with delight.

Everything is not fine. I thought this was going to be a good idea, as I seat here, with her in front of me, so beautiful I’m intimidated. Her clothes are so precise and fit her so well, and I picture my clothes, and perhaps I’d rather be naked.

She has been the only one talking, throughout the night. She’s happy and whatever is brought to her she eats or drinks. Unlike me, because I really felt like puking and almost chocked when I drank just a bit of water.

Now that the food is here, the odor burns my nostrils, and I feel like I want to drop dead, just right there. I’ve never been too much into elegant eating. I wasn’t really hungry, but I just couldn’t eat. It was as if nerves famished too. I don’t know where to look because the food will make me sicker, but she will make me sick too. I finally pick up my fork and shiver at the touch, for it was so cold, untouched. I cut the meat into moderate bits. I didn’t remember for cutting to be so hard. And yet I pretend it’s easy, like if it was something I’d do everyday. Well, it IS something I do everyday. I just don’t usually do it seating in front of my favorite girl.

For a second, finally convincing myself, I examine the food. There’s the meat I’ve cut, and some bits of it are bathed in this yellow sauce, with red bits of something. There’s rice, but it’s not white. The salad is so full of little green things I don’t want to eat. I have to, though.

She is already finishing when I eat the first mouthful. Immediately, I remember my grandma, and how she used to make this soup of weird color that was supposed to cure anything. I hated it, and so I sort of hated my grandma. I was surprised, though, because I munch this food, now, and would’ve given anything, for the soup instead.

Perhaps is was so horrible, though it was more than that, because of nervousness mixed up. So nasty, acidic, bittersweet, and I really wanted to throw it up. Her always-smile tells me to hold it, to be a gentleman, or to try to be one. And so I smile, with hideous crap in my mouth, and mumble an excuse me and run to the bathroom.

I thought, to go out on a date, never again, a restaurant. If I’ll ever be able to date again, I admit miserably. I decide I’m going to stick with the movies.

Responding to McSweeney

Today I read an article called On Behalf of Adam, Eve and Humanity at Large. The speaker was trying to defend our position (humanity's position) in the incident of The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. She brings up supportive details, such as why was it that Adam and Eve decided to cloth themsevles (because of protection of supposed dust, instead of guilt and embarassment). Somehow, she is asking God to think about it, to view our behavior as innocence. Also, she is blaming it a little on God, because certainly he was the one to place the serpent that would tempt Eve.

This article reminded me a bit about a discussion we had on Pre-AP English last semester, about how had been the most guilty for Eve's mistake (of deciding to try the apple of this certain tree). Personally, I do believe all of them are a bit guilty, because all of them had control over their own actions. Certainly, the speaker is saying that the most guilty of all, was God.

I liked this article because the speaker is considering details that might proove that she is right. This points are expressed in a humorous way, and so it makes the piece enjoyable to the reader.

Certainly Uncertain

Think about it. Most people try to come up with theories that mean to help us, but they just confuse us a bit more, they do. Laws, I really don’t get them. Hell, I wish someone would invent a law or something that would explain the difference between ‘law’ and ‘theory’. But, if I’m looking for something not-confusing, then I’m definitely going the wrong way.

Think about it. It’s raining outside, and you have nothing to do but think. And there are cars passing by, and you see the raindrops splashing, and there’s lampposts, some that flicker, and your neighbour is watching T.V. like he usually does. It’s the world out there. The society we’ve created. Made up of different theories and laws. Things that were meant to be. And you can’t help but wonder, throughout boring times in your life, how a television works, and electricity too. Bossy scientists get all mad at you, and they explain the whole thing. But you just wonder, why? Why is it that colour? Why not green? Why not round?

Because things are just this way, some might answer. But it’s not enough. Laws are made to explain something logical, or something that can be explained. It’d be good to know, to be explained, about illogical things. Or things that are too cool for us, the humans. Traveling through time. What is time? Seconds, minutes and hours. How was it created?...I really don’t know.

There is this law, a small law that is somehow shy and can’t come out to make itself clear. It is living all among us. This law, so different, tries to explain the illogical. We love this law, though we don’t know about it. Sometimes, it avoids head aches and allows us to think a bit less, and leave everything as it is.

It’s Uncertainty. We are goddamn full of it. How many times have we said, I don’t know? Because we are too lazy to browse Google.com and try to find an article explaining the Quantum Theory, or something. This Law had to be heard.

Who are you to be certain? You say there’s things you don’t know, but what do you know about you? You might as well be living two thousand lives at the same time, and therefore allowing your different ‘selves’ to be in different worlds and times. We thought time was certain, but it really isn’t. We can’t know if there are different ways in which to experience time. We can’t know if time is repetitive, or dangerous.

The Law of Uncertainty. We live within it. Because we never know what will happen, for certain. We really don’t know what or who we are, and what we will do. We don’t know if God exists, if there is Karma, and Destiny, we don’t know for certain. Why are apples red? Uncertainty. You see, apples are not only red, but green and yellow too.

Obviously, sometime you’ll get stressed for being so ignorant, and leaving everything without a proper explanation, but I don’t want you to die of stress. So, here’s some optimistic views about something we most fear: death. You should actually look forward to it. Because when you’re dead, when you’re in that other life that people talk about, then you’ll know everything, for certain. Too bad we don’t want to die. Why? It’s uncertain.

Sleepless (Punctuation piece)

The snoring. I was not dreaming, no. I woke up fast and was a little lost. My eyes were open, and still I felt as if I didn’t see. Such darkness. I hadn’t left the phone on or anything, so there wasn’t even minimum light. Soon I forgot why was it that I was up. It was after all, midnight. I wasn’t much of a party person or anything. I had school the next day, and I really wanted to rest.

She snored once again. Much louder this time. I was all tensed up suddenly. I looked in her bed’s direction, though I wasn’t sure where it was. The noise guided me. In, out. The heavy breathing being interrupted by walls of dirt in her nostrils, producing but a melody. Definitely hard to sleep again.

I close my eyes. I’m quite awake. I lay there, ready to fall asleep. I can’t. My arms are stretched parallel to my knees. I thought I must’ve looked like a dead person. So still and straight. With the palm of my hand I touch something that I’ve never touched before. It’s in the bed. A small bump. It’s round, and I get curious. I believe myself stupid, for not noticing it before. I wonder what it might be. No movement, no bug or anything. I relax. I can’t figure out any shape. I don’t know what it is. I can’t look because of the darkness. I touch like I’ve never touched before. Concentrating. Nothing.

There’s nothing I can do. I think. About things. Random topics that might come across my empty mind. I do my best to ignore the snoring. It’s playing not so quietly, like an unprofessional background music. I’m jealous. I want to be her. To sleep like that. Amazing.

Suddenly I get sweaty. I feel all warm. The blanket soon becomes an uncomfortable fortress. I remove it and breathe a bit. I feel unprotected, but I’m still warm. I ignore, I do my best. I think about homework. I did it, complete. I read what I had to. It’s so stupid. Everything that we’re assigned, it’s just torture. Because teachers are jealous that we have free time. I think about school during the day. I was good. I got all worried because I didn’t study for the test. So pathetic. I’m too filled up with myself. I don’t realize there are certainly other things to worry about. Greater things. That concern us all. The End of the World. I’m scared, I’m curious too. I think how are we going to die. There’s so much theories these days. Global Warming. Contamination. Starvation. Overflow. Floods. Gay marriages. I laugh a bit. I ignore the fact that I’m supposed to be sleeping. I laugh at the world, I laugh at me. I’m in bed. I am touching the bump, and I am so warm. And I am worried because I can’t sleep. I am ignoring the fact that I’m going to die someday. Somehow it doesn’t traumatize me. I reproach myself. I decide to take life easier. I decide to enjoy everything from now on. I really do. Because sleepless and failing tests are nothing. Compared to the real thing. Nothing.

The alarm sounds. I seat up. I’m annoyed, but I feel bad when I see the time’s correct.
Must have been what a night of sleeplessness felt like. Now I’m tired. I want to complain. But I stay quiet as I remember everything I said. I am happy.

Buggers and Modesty

Definitely not a good day. Before I tell you about it, you must understand what I am. Certainly, I am not perfect. My hair lacks life and colour, and my eyes are too big. I’m afraid, and people tell me, that they might jump out someday. My eyebrows are extremely dark, and so big, unlike my blue eyes and what you would call ‘blonde’ hair. My nose, I can breathe, yes, but it goes in a weird curve and then totally drops. It points down-like. I’m hairy. Not monster-hairy, but enough as to remind me of wax and depilation. I go to school. I don’t totally suck, but I know I am not doing my best either.

Before I think about killing myself or something, I compliment of me to be modest. Which is just the same as pessimist, I’ve come to realize. I am good at finding flaws, specially mine, and I’m usually blaming myself for everything that happens to me. What happened today, though, I don’t know what to say. I’d say I was thinking too much already.

I do sports. I’m not good at them, I just started playing them this year. Not only was I extremely bored of books and T.V., but I thought it would be good for my body. Soccer it is. I’ve always considered for the girls in the basketball team to be sort of mean. Or maybe it’s just that I’m pure innocence. I’ve never been able to come with good comebacks, on time. I always spend the night thinking about things I should’ve said during the day. It’s always too late, though. I’m weak, physically. I’ve never liked volleyballs. There’s a higher chance you’ll get hit in the head, and I feel sort of naked if I’m said to remove my watch and bracelets. Should I leave them on, the pain increases. I just walked away.

I’ve never been to social. I met this girl, she kind of met me first, but she’s not that nice. She came today, and I start practicing without much enthusiasm. I was doing my best to ignore her, I was. She’s some sort of pervert, annoying little freak. Little. She’s one year younger. I’m so stupid, letting her take advantage of me, but I just ignore. Perhaps what bothers me so much, it’s her skills. Jealousy. I’m very jealous. She makes really good tricks with that ball, and sometimes I stare. Her mouth shuts up when she plays soccer, and that’s good.

It’s water break, and I drink water rapidly. It seemed the coaches had read each other’s kind and now the guys were resting too. I must acknowledge, I like this guy, in the boy’s team. He’s cute and everything, but I can’t find a way to describe him physically. He’d seem too much average. He isn’t. His skin tone is darker, for instance. He drinks water, and I try not to look. I’m kind of dreamy already, when the soccer freak arrives. She’s so filled up with herself, and she walks next to me. I smile, and her eyes get all weird, and it’s scary, and I can’t even fixate on the smile. She fills up her glass, and drinks all the water, and throws the glass into the trash, so tuff. She walks again. “You have a bugger right there.” She doesn’t point, but it sort of destroys my life, what she said. The boy, he’s still there. He’s not a fast drinker, and I can’t really see his reaction. He’s sort of serious, in most cases. I’m scared, and so embarrassed. I hear her laugh a bit, walking back to the field. I’m immovable, but I don’t remember where I was looking. I don’t want to see him again, though. But I know, bitterly, there’s no chances, if there once were. I’m bugger girl. It takes me long enough to get to the bathroom, and clean my nose. I hate myself, I think. Because I discovered, too, I’m too careless to goddamn clean my nose. Bad, bad day.

Fishy Business

Every once in a while they approach the surface, and open their mouths, round, and open and close it. As if they were breathing. Perhaps even they get tired of water.

What do they do? I wonder. Perhaps animals—or fishes—have a different way in which to measure time, or something. Maybe they live in a second—what we live in a day. That would explain the endless days--lives--that they live, just swimming around.

Their tales wiggle, and they really don’t stop. Sometimes they stand still, but soon enough they realize that with the bright colour in their scales, they really can’t camouflage. From what, though? Are they scared?

I wonder if they dream. If they have nightmares, if they even sleep. Personally I’m too lazy to wake up during the night, and just glance, and see whether they’re still awake. I’m really not in the mood to try it. Once I try to set the camera, and record them, but if the batteries were not done, it was too dark, or it just got wet.

I’ve never been as close to one of them, as to see whether they have ears or not. But I turn on the music, and one of them dances a bit. Maybe she—she—just got altered, but the nerves were really coordinate with the music. Sometimes, she even positions herself vertically, and imagines she has a dance partner, as if there were any other fish as willing to dance as her. It’s like an impossible dream, those that we all have.

The other fish, he’s sort of fishy. Though I’ve never had the chance to observe and study the whole species, he’s a bit awkward. It has happen more than once, that I’m doing my homework or something, and then he’s floating there, still, and his eyes are not moving, nor his tail. I get a bit nervous and rub my hand against the aquarium. After some seconds he moves again. I sigh of relieve. Perhaps he is sort of intelligent. Perhaps he enjoys fooling me and scaring me to death.

I don’t love them that much, though. They are sort of Plan B after dog. Our puppy was way too hyper and so we had to return it. Then, I got fish because they’re calm. They’re too calm. Whenever you feel lonely, you glance at the fish, and you just feel worse. But I don’t want them to die. So I feed them every morning, and they eat their food—if food’s what you call it—slowly, as if they were never too hungry.

They’re never too anything, now that I think about it. They have no worries. They don’t get dirty, among water that I clean so constantly. They can do whatever they want, whatever’s inside the aquarium. I’ve never expect them to jump or anything. I really don’t know about their ages, but they’re kind of old. All modest, and slow. And I hope that for the day they die, it will be because of oldness, rather than malnutrition or contamination or something.

Responding to The New Yorker

I read a piece called The House Behind a Weeping Cherry. It was mainly about this poor man (the narrator) who lived in a whorehouse, because he didn't have enough money to pay another rent. As time passed, he got used to his situation, and talks and becomes friends with the prostitues. They are glad because they feel a bit more secure with a man in the house. Throughout the story, the reader is able to realize and experience how the relationship between the narrator and the prostitues changes, or gets 'better'.

Another thing I like is the way in which he describes the prostitues, because people would think about them as dity, and somehow inhumane. The narrator made me realize that they are normal people too, and that they are only doing that job because they need money, for their families back in their home countries. He believes they are as much of a human as he is, and he even falls in love with one of them.

I think that this story is sort of unique, because not many people would like to write about a character living within not expected places, or places were he/she doesn't belong.

What I really want to Do

My phone conversations with her were seldom worthwhile. Like I felt she was calling—because she was the one who started always—just because she really had nothing better to do. It all started with the typical what's the math homework and then there was silence and all I could do was hear the television at the other end of the line. If she wasn’t calling she was watching T.V. Good thing she had decided to try both. But yesterday it was complete boredom and desperation, what led me to do something.

“ I still don’t get why we have to learn Logic. It should be optional, you know? Because we think it in different ways and so no one is right, right? I—”

“Hey, have you ever thought of something that you really wanna do?”

“Um, what? We were just talking about math and you bring this up?”

“You were talking about Logic, and now I am not. Something you really want to do?”

“Actually, there’s tons of things I want to do. You know, travel, and get married and things.”

“Yeah, everyone wants to do that.”

“Well,? it’s because that’s what you should do. Because it’s interesting.”

“But there must be something that you want to do, not because it’s the typical interesting, but because you really want to do it.”

“…You mean something weird and abnormal.”

“Well…sure, if you put it that way.”

“I wouldn’t do anything weird. Why would I?”

“Because you wanted to do it.”

“But I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself in public.”

“I see, so it’s about others watching you.”

“Heh, yeah. I don’t want people to think I’m a weirdo.”

“Exactly. Say you really wanted to do something, but you can't do it because everyone is watching. You shouldn’t care about the others. It’s bad to pretend to be someone who you truly aren’t.”

“Now you sound like a counsellor, you know, the freaky ladies who think they know so much about teens but they don’t, like remember—”

“What? It’s all true.”

“Come on. Even you pretend someone who you are not.”
“I know I do. I try to convince myself not to do it.”

“Okay, cool. It’s nice to propose yourself with challenges.”

“…Yeah, talking about creepy counsellors.”

“Yeah, whatever. You know, being ‘not-different’ doesn’t really make me unholy or anything. I admit that we are absorbed in a society that makes us be the same, and we can’t be different because—”

“A Chocolate Bath.”

“What?! You’re so random today it’s not even funny! Quit it!”

“Hey, you say that you don’t want to do anything weird because you’re afraid that the We do the Same, Screw the Rest Club might expel you. Since I am doing my best at avoiding your clone society, I want a chocolate bath.”

“…Sometimes, you really scare me.”

“Think about it. Do you like chocolate?”

“Um, yes, but—”

“Everybody likes chocolate. Everyone appreciates its sweetness and deliciousness and imagine a bath, with all of the above.”

“Still, it would so…unclean.”

“There is not clean or dirty chocolate. It’s just it, in all it’s glory.”

“Why the hell would I bathe myself in chocolate? There’s something called water, you know.”

“Hey, even you would like it. Just imagine it. You home, after school and so tired of pretending someone who you really are not. And all you want to do, is relax, and sleep, and enjoy, and be yourself. You open the bathroom door, and your bathtub is filled with melted chocolate, looking so provocative. You are so temped, and you jump into the chocolate bath, and it’s so cosy and delicious, and you want to stay there.”

“…God, I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m supposed you are as flattered as I am.”

“Em…sure. Listen, I really gotta go, you know, to do the Math homework. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, have fun.”

After I hung up the phone, I realized I had found a way in which I could avoid phone conversations with her, forever.

Cooper's Technique

What we tell the Children


KNOCK, KNOCK…!
Who’s there?!
Thieve.
Thieve who—

And next thing you know, you find your son dead on the floor or something. Not dead, but freaked out. The thieve has entered the house, anyway, and now, walking slowly through the living room, you do a mental list of all the books you’ll have to buy, to replace your long hours of T.V. watching. In the kitchen, the microwave is gone too. And you thought you’d never actually need all the recipes grandma had given you a long time ago.

Knock, Knock…in the joke, there’s supposed to be oranges, and shampoos, and cows at your door, but in the real life, other than the obnoxious neighbourhood, or the eager mailman, who would knock on the door? How can a joke be made when these kinds of people knock, knock on your door? Are you willing to open the door?

A thieve knocked on the door this time. It was about time, though, for us to realize what is it that the daily knock, knock thing was telling our children to open the door, even though we weren’t supposed to.

Kids open the door, because their parents were careless enough as to not buy one of those see-through glasses that are perforated on doors. And this product does sound like a thing only Info-mericals would shoe, but the ridiculous glass, it would’ve saved children’s lives—or well-being. Then again, the small ones, they open the door because they don’t reach the glass. They are too anxious to glance by the window, because they only want to open the door and laugh out loud at the giant cookie, or something.

Others, sadly, open the door because they believe the black outfit the “knocker” is wearing is so totally cool and Star Wars-like. They probably think he’s there to give them costumes, or something.

Children are optimistic, and that is bad. It is time for our children to be save, and so they must know the truth. Tell them the truth about the jokes, about the one behind the door, out there. It’s not happy. If one day grandma comes and visits, and she gets mad at you because your son didn’t want to open the door, think about it, it is better to have hysterics mothers-in-law than strangers coming in the house, and taking the T.V. along with the microwave.

We should be grateful, though, because everyone knocks. I mean, the strangers could bang the door and come in, or something. And that’s the whole point of the knock, knock. To realize there is some decency within thieves and criminals.

Perhaps these jokes were developed by the criminals themselves. They wanted to indirectly educate the children to open the door, no matter the person or thing outside whatsoever. If kids thought about it this way, then it would be much easier for a thieve to come in the house, and steal things.

Knock, Knock…!
Who’s there?!
Cow.
I’m not opening the door.