I don't know if it's the heat or my rather mundane job, but I think I'm finally losing the very last of my marbles. I've been reading paperback thriller after paperback thriller for weeks now, and I have reached a point where half the time I think I'm IN a paperback thriller. Which brings me to my question. Have you ever wondered how you would be described if you appeared as a character in one? It seems to be the trend in british thriller trash to describe everyone as grimly and as coldy as possible. It's supposed to seem "insightful" and "intelligent". No one is ever attractive or cheerful. Granted these do take place in England where people generally are not attractive nor cheerful, but I digress. The point is that these descriptions always sound something like this:
Her thin, wispy hair seemed greasy as she ran her fingers
through it nervously, glancing at the door every couple of seconds like she was
expecting someone. Her nails had been bitten and she had a visible nicotine
stain on two of her fingers and I could see a small cut on the back of her hand
that was beginning to get slightly infected. She tugged at the hemline of her
cheap skirt to try and cover the bruises on her dry knees while she spoke,
her non descript color eyes shifting warily around the shabby room, nervously
eyeing the dim light leaking in between the unwashed, orange curtains and
casting light onto the messy coffee table covered with Indian takeaway boxes and
overflowing ashtrays...
Well, you get the idea.
I have now ODed on these books and have become like the Don Quiqote of the paperback thriller. I'll put the book down, and go on about my business and then I'll catch myself ten minutes later sneaking looks at the people around me, wondering if THEY might be the killer. "Hmm, Elder Holdaway is looking mighty suspicious today..." and almost instantly some dreary description pops into my head.
He slouches slighty as he sits in his chair, gazing awkwardly
up at the rest of us and I bite my tounge so as not to tell him to sit up
straight. There is something endearing about the way he carries himself, it's
almost childlike. He unsuccessfully tries to stifle a nervous giggle as the
attention was suddenly drawn towards him and I can tell that he's blushing.
It just occurred to me that if I'm found dead in the near future (paperback thriller...), Elder Holdaway probably found this and read it. I would just like to profuselly state for the record that I don't REALLY think Elder Holdaway is an overgrown child who slouches. I'm merely using him as an example as I try to imitate the poetic genius of the 21st century that I am so deeply immersed in from 8 am to 5 pm every day. It could just as well be Elder Whoever-else. And I love him really, he's adorable. He hates me though, but I don't let his undulled hatred curb my affections. Nor his morbid fear of me. I'm an unrelenting loooove machine.
Wanna dip your pretzel in my love gravy, baby baby?
PS: Utah-David was none too happy about my little blurb about him in the last blog, and I would just like to state for the record that it was all a cruel, heartless joke. David is in fact sweet as cotton candy and pure as the driven snow.
: 7:36 PM