Consitutional Crisis
The Lackey is suffering from a personal crisis.
I was in the bathroom, only minutes ago, and after I had washed my hands, as I was walking past the basins toward the door, I clenched my biceps and looked appraisingly in the mirror. Of course at that moment, the door opened and Moustache Man walked in. "How are ya?" I asked as I strightened up, brushed past him in the doorway all nonchalant-like.
He mumbled some response, but it was lost in his moustache. But I know he saw it, he knows he saw it, and I know he knows he saw it. The problem is, he doesn't know I was doing it ironically. I pondered this as I wandered back to my desk. He saw me clenching my muscles at the mirror. Now he thinks I'm some kind of vain weirdo. He doesn't know I was being ironic. Was I being ironic? Was I in fact a vain weirdo? Does it matter? Does he care? Maybe I was just innocently wondering how silly I looked if I clenched my biceps. Moustache Man is probably standing there in front of the mirrors, clenching as we speak. Eeugh... How do you clench ironically? That doesn't even make sense you strange little freak. Ok, ok, calm down Mr Passive-Self-Aggression-Guy. But am I constituted of vanity? Or irony? Or general normality? Or a mixture?Or what the hell's going on? Take a lunch break for God's sake. Good idea.
That moment, that moment as the door starts to open is at once so long, stretching into hours on frame-by-frame advance in your mind, and yet so brief that you can't get further than started with any reaction, nowhere near finished nowhere near ready to face the next moment nowhere near anywhere at all.
And so I'm going to lunch, taking a book and sitting in the sun, and checking out my muscles in peace.
I was in the bathroom, only minutes ago, and after I had washed my hands, as I was walking past the basins toward the door, I clenched my biceps and looked appraisingly in the mirror. Of course at that moment, the door opened and Moustache Man walked in. "How are ya?" I asked as I strightened up, brushed past him in the doorway all nonchalant-like.
He mumbled some response, but it was lost in his moustache. But I know he saw it, he knows he saw it, and I know he knows he saw it. The problem is, he doesn't know I was doing it ironically. I pondered this as I wandered back to my desk. He saw me clenching my muscles at the mirror. Now he thinks I'm some kind of vain weirdo. He doesn't know I was being ironic. Was I being ironic? Was I in fact a vain weirdo? Does it matter? Does he care? Maybe I was just innocently wondering how silly I looked if I clenched my biceps. Moustache Man is probably standing there in front of the mirrors, clenching as we speak. Eeugh... How do you clench ironically? That doesn't even make sense you strange little freak. Ok, ok, calm down Mr Passive-Self-Aggression-Guy. But am I constituted of vanity? Or irony? Or general normality? Or a mixture?Or what the hell's going on? Take a lunch break for God's sake. Good idea.
That moment, that moment as the door starts to open is at once so long, stretching into hours on frame-by-frame advance in your mind, and yet so brief that you can't get further than started with any reaction, nowhere near finished nowhere near ready to face the next moment nowhere near anywhere at all.
And so I'm going to lunch, taking a book and sitting in the sun, and checking out my muscles in peace.
posted by Lackey | 2:32 pm
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