“Okay, but please don’t laugh at my silly idea. How about a story that shows how people react to a big, burly guy who’s sobbing in public?” – Magarisa.
The Blessing and The Curse and How They Became One was the theme of his thesis and yet George could find no place for it in his mind today. The bugs were closing in. It had started with that damned book about bacteria. His friend, Larry, had this thing where, if he saw a splatter of bird shit – on the pavement, down a car windscreen or, heaven forfend, on his head, he would have to soap and rinse his whole body precisely 26 times. It was much worse if any of the shit touched Larry. Much, much worse. George had bought him a book about the bugs in people’s intestines and, as it turned out. all over his body and every single surface. There’s nothing George liked more than a good book. So he read it before passing it on to Larry. It was a good thing he had – Larry would have freaked! And it was a really, really bad thing he had, because now – George was freaking. Libraries are meant to be quiet. Restful places for reading and research. Silent as a tomb. Holy as a church. This one stank! It hit George as soon as he entered. The rank smell of unwashed bodies. The stink of faeces – urine and shit. Bugs, bugs everywhere! Shit, they’re in my mouth and my eyes and up my nose and on my fingers and they get into my sandwiches as I eat them and, and, and SHIT! George ran his fingers through his hair and then pulled his hand away in horror. The feeling of sweat from his forehead as it slid onto his palm, crawling all over his skin. His face twisted, melting, fat cheeks wobbling. George was a reasonable man. Times was unreasonable. The tears running down his cheeks and snot down his upper lip – sliding into his mouth were all unreasonable. Bugs. They had him. The more he moved, the more the bugs found opportunities to colonise his body. Peanuts on the bar with a quick sprinkling of faeces? That was nothing compared to the deluge of bugs on the average body. And George was by no means average. He was a big man.
As I write this, I am in a mall – at the Food Court. I am sitting at a table with my arse hanging over the edge of one of these inadequate chairs, and I am sobbing fit to die. Snot is pouring out of my nose. My moustache looks like a half drowned vole that has squatted down to take a piss on my upper lip.
I don’t look up as I leak tears into my coffee. I already know what I’ll see. Pity. That’s what I’ll see. But it ain’t real. It ain’t as if these people feel anything for me. They just don’t want their children to grow up to be such a sad-sack. If they could get away with covering their kid’s eyes – they’d do that.
I don’t care.
I just cry.
They’re closing in on me – and there’s nothing I can do about it. If the bugs don’t get me, it’ll be the cyanide in my coffee. Ha, and the waitress doesn’t think I know. Well more fool her. I’ve known right from the start. Bugs and cyanide. I know I’m done for, but I don’t have to feel happy about it.
Let this blog post be my last will and testament. I leave my flat to the landlord. My furniture to the dump I got it from. My beans to … oh, just remembered – I ate the last of the food this morning. All of it. Then broke the plates. Then ripped up all my books. Then came here.
The laptops’s a piece of junk. Have it if you want.
GET AWAY FROM ME! DON’T TOUCH ME YOU FREAKS!