Down time. Television programming; a cacophony of dull, meaningless advertisements, grotesque sexual wish fulfillment, violence devoid of repercussions and bottom level comedy designed to placate the irresponsible masses. Keep them indoors. Keep them off the streets. Keep them from me.
Soap operas. Bland, unsatisfying tripe. Good only for distracting overweight, under-educated housewives from their slimey, squirming offspring, choking on Play-Doh in their own cribs. Plots are repetitive. Every character seems to suffer from amnesia. If only I could forget the ugliness of the world around me as easily as Paul could forget that Pamela was cheating on him with his twin brother, Terry.
Television disgusted me. Went to library.
Thanks to internet, library practically abandoned. Now nothing more than a squalid, urine-soaked motel for vagrants and mentally inadequate social rejects. Passed through children's section. The Butter Battle Book. It's been years. Been years since I was a child. I was never a child.
My attention is drawn to a tome lying disheveled on the floor at my feet. I pick it up. Unlicensed Watchmen coloring book from 1981. I find my face plastered upon its sticky, yellowed pages. I received no royalties. Must pay visit to Random House Publishing. Beneath the crusted smatterings of Crayola, a story can be gleamed.
I am not amused.
