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I have a certified license in driving people up walls. And when I'm not busy trying (not) to do that, I blog. read more>>
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if you’ve met joanne the editor, you ought to meet joanne the sadist
posted May 28, 2007 2:09 pm
Johann is scarcely a handsome man. Persons whose bodily structures show more dependence on bone for support than it ought to would never quite fulfill the prerequisite level of physical aesthetic that is generally regarded. His constant tendency to perspire accentuates the puffiness of his fat face; asymmetrical as his face happens to be with only a single dimple to ornament his right cheek, strangely abhorrent are the coarse vines of hair that meet the gleam of sebaceous skin; virile strains of absolute black.
Yet Johann is one such person whose favorite place to dwell within is none other than the state of denial. Johann keeps a goldplate-bordered mirror in his backpack and brings it with him everywhere he goes – he pulls it out during the oddest of moments to admire the crookedness of his slightly eastward pointing nose, and praises himself for being the best looking man with a bent nose. Such behavior warrants arrogance from the people around him.
But not Beatrice. As his dutiful girlfriend, she finds it her responsibility to sustain her capability to withstand such nonsensicality; the random pulling out of the mirror with weight equivalent to ten golf balls, slightly more even. He barely had time to look into her eyes, which is a mandatory act for all couples – he only saw time to admire his fleshy face in his trademark mirror, beaming at the pores surrounding his nose, its surface similar to that of the Moon.
Then came the day when Beatrice’s patience tank dried up like your regular puppy dog’s water dish would under a hot, hot sun.
Beatrice reached into his backpack because she was forbidden to. Her eyes saw the glass and her fingers longed to touch it. She wanted more than just to feed her eyes; she wasn’t satisfied. Her fingers held the mirror and brought it from its dark place. Beatrice traced her finger on the outline of her cheek in the reflection of the glass pane. The mirror has powers, she mused. Powers to withstand Johann’s inexplicable arrogance. She molested the mirror, wanting to know its secrets. She turned it upside down, waving it slightly to the left and to the right. She tugged clumsily at the top, hoping for an answer. The mirror remained the way it was. Its peace made Beatrice furious.
Her expedition, yet to meet its climactic point, came to an abrupt end when the hoarse, unearthly sound of her boyfriend’s voice came ringing through her ears. In a knee-jerk reaction to the fright which overwhelmed her at the speed of lightning, she full-forcedly swung the mirror towards the voice’s source, so much so that she ripped her favorite red turtle neck top, just a little at the underarms. The mirror broke into a million pieces, and so did his skull.
Johann fell to the ground with a thud, a thousand shards of his favorite mirror sticking out of his fleshy face.
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