meet the death angel
OK Fourth wall be gone!.. I'm feeling a bit constrained writing about the imagined life ofLlittlegirlcop. I'm feeling blocked. I need to get some real details out of my head before I can write pretend – vicarious living is the only way to go – details for my man Murphy.
Fact one. I had a crappy job interview. I walked into a start-up yesterday, it was a south of market loft, an open office with the expensive version of the old school late nineties door-desks, ethernet cable webbing the exposed concrete ceiling. From the guy I met with I got the feeling that he had no Idea what he needed to do to launch the commercial website he was in charge of launching and he didn't have people in place that did: Strike one. He kept me waiting for almost a half hour, he was kind of rude and he kept trying to negotiate down my price and convince me their stock had value: Strike two. The room was full of old white men and their product was targeted at a young market: Strike three. I was trying to make a sentence about what I was feeling that fit into the world of Littlegirlcop but I couldn't figure out how to shoehorn it into Murphy's story. I like the sentence but kept hanging up on who it was describing:
If he tried hard enough Littlegirlcop could almost smell flesh rotting. He wasn't walking into the morgue or the forensics lab. He was walking into the office of <-- insert character here --> The offices seemed modern enough with up-to-date furniture; it was clean with lots of light. The place looked modern. It wasn't the musty smell of an old building, it was the stagnation of ideas he was smelling.
Fact two. My boss it nuts and it seems like he's constantly having his meds adjusted. Just today he talked about having a computer virus cause his computer to say "meet the death angel" over and over slowly fading out. He told me about an art school friend who was a chronic masturbator, her record was six times in twenty minute. She might have documented this as a conceptual art piece or not; it wasn't clear why he was telling me. It was almost like his brain full of creepy stories sprung a leak. He had another art school friend who's father set his own chest hair on fire after asking his children if they wanted french toast. Again the point was unclear, But it didn't make me feel comfortable, warm or fuzzy. He went on to talk about his alter ego Eric, the name he uses at starbucks when he orders coffee, this didn't seem so weird until he started describing Eric's extremely potmarked face (but he and Eric share the same face and his skin is clear) He also talked about Eric's stable of lover's: three men and three woman. These descriptions seemed to be crossing from fantasy and pretend into the land of multiple personality. He had a doctors appointment this afternoon, thank christ. I didn't want to dump this all on Littlegirlcop but it needed to get out. Now it's out. Devil be gone.
Fact one. I had a crappy job interview. I walked into a start-up yesterday, it was a south of market loft, an open office with the expensive version of the old school late nineties door-desks, ethernet cable webbing the exposed concrete ceiling. From the guy I met with I got the feeling that he had no Idea what he needed to do to launch the commercial website he was in charge of launching and he didn't have people in place that did: Strike one. He kept me waiting for almost a half hour, he was kind of rude and he kept trying to negotiate down my price and convince me their stock had value: Strike two. The room was full of old white men and their product was targeted at a young market: Strike three. I was trying to make a sentence about what I was feeling that fit into the world of Littlegirlcop but I couldn't figure out how to shoehorn it into Murphy's story. I like the sentence but kept hanging up on who it was describing:
If he tried hard enough Littlegirlcop could almost smell flesh rotting. He wasn't walking into the morgue or the forensics lab. He was walking into the office of <-- insert character here --> The offices seemed modern enough with up-to-date furniture; it was clean with lots of light. The place looked modern. It wasn't the musty smell of an old building, it was the stagnation of ideas he was smelling.
Fact two. My boss it nuts and it seems like he's constantly having his meds adjusted. Just today he talked about having a computer virus cause his computer to say "meet the death angel" over and over slowly fading out. He told me about an art school friend who was a chronic masturbator, her record was six times in twenty minute. She might have documented this as a conceptual art piece or not; it wasn't clear why he was telling me. It was almost like his brain full of creepy stories sprung a leak. He had another art school friend who's father set his own chest hair on fire after asking his children if they wanted french toast. Again the point was unclear, But it didn't make me feel comfortable, warm or fuzzy. He went on to talk about his alter ego Eric, the name he uses at starbucks when he orders coffee, this didn't seem so weird until he started describing Eric's extremely potmarked face (but he and Eric share the same face and his skin is clear) He also talked about Eric's stable of lover's: three men and three woman. These descriptions seemed to be crossing from fantasy and pretend into the land of multiple personality. He had a doctors appointment this afternoon, thank christ. I didn't want to dump this all on Littlegirlcop but it needed to get out. Now it's out. Devil be gone.
posted by murphychatsascindy at 16:51
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